Loathsome
by East-Coast-Invictus
Summary: The life and times of Hector Barbossa, from humble origins to pirate lord to his death and back.
1. The Tale of Bloody Finn

**Loathsome**

Disclaimer – I do not own Pirates of the Caribbean. How many times must I say this?

-The Tale of Bloody Finn-

"Lightnin' flashed. Thun'er split the skies. Rain poured from ominous thick black clouds. Wind shrieked and howled through the rigging of two ships, lost in a deadly dance and trapped within the howling maelstrom. Cannon shot screamed through the air, skitterin' off t'surface of the ragin' sea or colliding wiv the side of a ship. The two ships, a Royal Navy bark and a pirate full rigger, had been a-duelin' for nigh upon eight hours. T'was the famous HMS _Rapier_ versus the equally infamous _Aldebaran_, capt'ned by none other than Bloody Finn McCully who was the most fearsome, famous, and all around best pirate of the seven seas.

"Three times the _Rapier_ and _Aldebaran_ came in wiv'in boardin' distance of each other and three times, many lives were lost. Three times blood spilled across the decks of the ships. Three times Bloody Finn and the Navy captain shot at each other with their pistols.

"Hundreds of pounds of powder had been shot and hundreds of pounds of lead had torn through ship siding. And now, after eight hours, it seemed like the battle would never end. The two ships came together a fourth time, cannons still a-blazing. This time, neither captain would back down. The prows of the ships met with a crash and a mighty splinterin' of wood. They were now locked together in a final effort to sink th'other.

"The pirates swooped in from their side as the navy sailors did the same, swords a-wavin' and pistols firin'. Bloody Finn and the Navy captain found each other amidst all the hackin' and slashin' and blood sheddin'. It would be the most fearsome fight 'twixt a h'officer n' a pirate."

The crowd gathered around the fire place in the Broken Fiddle pub was on the edge of their seats as the story teller, an old, one-eyed one-toothed individual named Sod Henry, weaved tales of pirates and adventures on the high seas. Every soul there knew that Sod used to be a pirate and every soul knew that if the London officials found out, he'd be hauled off to hang from the gallows. But, as nearly every soul in the Broken Fiddle had dark dealings of their own, they held their tongues.

With his emaciated form outlined by the fire on the hearth, Sod was reenacting the famous battle between Commodore William Willoughby and Bloody Finn McCully. He waved his arms and danced around, brandishing a knobby cane as a sword. While most of the crowd had heard this story several times over and were mainly adults, they still turned in their seats to listen. However, they were not as enraptured as the half dozen children seated in a semi-circle at Sod's feet.

They were between the ages of thirteen and five, all of them orphans or near to it. There were two in the group that still had at least one parent left. Covered in grim and soot from the streets, none of them had to have seen a bar of soap in the past few years. A few were missing fingers. Some had bumps and bruises. One even carried a crutch. But, such were the trials and tribulations of orphans in the seventeenth century poor side of London. They had each come from the tenement square a few blocks over from the Fiddle and they each had lost parents to the small outbreak of pestilence a couple years back.

None would take them so they banded together. Their names from oldest to youngest were Jacky, Hector, Dill, Jess, Eliza, and Jimbo. The leader of this little group was the teen, Jacky Thomas. He was a cocky sort of cove but he acted as an older brother to the younger kids. His right hand, his first mate was the next oldest, twelve-year-old Hector Haywood. Young Hector was a spry, generally hateful little fellow and possibly the scrappiest in the whole group. He wore a constant challenging expression, eyes flashing from underneath a blond/brown mop of hair at any that sent looks of disdain towards him. And it was he that was inspired the most by Sod Henry's tales of pirates and adventures.

The entire process always sent a thrill through him as he sat listening to the old man yarn. It didn't matter if he'd heard the tale dozens of times or not. His blue eyes would always be wide in awe at Sod's exclamations and movements. Early on his life, he'd decided he was going to be a sailing man whether it be by legal or illegal means. Everything about sailing fascinated him – the vocabulary, the excitement, the chance at making a name for himself.

But what made Hector desire for a vast expanse of blue and an empty horizon was the thought of freedom. Life in a tenement square was squalid and cramped and, as Jacky's mate, he had obligations to his crew. In all, he felt trapped.

Sod finished his tale amidst scattered applause and calls of "'Ere, 'ere." Jacky gathered up the group and they made for the door. Of course, none of them really wanted to leave the warm pub for the cold street. Jacky's argument was always "bread don't beg for 'isself." Hector was last out of the pub, hands shoved irately into the thin pockets of his too short pants. Oh well. After the day was over, he could head back to the Fiddle on his own to see if Sod would tell him any more pirate tales.

Later, as the sun was setting over the Thames, the group of kids settled down in their little 'home' near the docks. The two who had a parent to go home to went home. The conditions wouldn't be any better but, as they knew what it was like to be totally orphaned from the others, they went anyway. Hector was in a foul mood and didn't feel like going to the Broken Fiddle.

He couldn't come up with a reason for it. It was inexplicable. Maybe it was their lack of success that day. Or maybe he was feeling bogged down by the others. Flopping down on the cobblestones under their lean-to next to a dock warehouse, he heaved an angry sigh through his nose and stared up at the lean-to's top. The other kids plopped down as well and were soon asleep. This left only Jacky and Hector.

Jacky was silent for a long time, watching his friend stare angrily upwards. "Hey Heccy," he said, flicking a stray strand of his black hair from his eyes. Hector only glanced at him in reply, his eyes soon flicking back to the ceiling. "There somethin' what's vexin' ya?"

"I wants out, Jack," Hector replied. "I been listenin' to Sod tell tales for near three years now and I knows there be a better life fer me out there somewheres." He sat up, clenching his fists. "At least a life where I don't hafta beg for me food."

Jacky nodded sagely but his mouth had a disapproving curve to. "I know what you're sayin'. I felt th'same way back when I founded our little group here. But that's summat you gotta get used to. Yer obliged here, Hec. 'Sides, a street orphan gots a snowball's chance in makin' it big. Life ain't gonna change for us."

Hector glared at his fists, a decisive expression on his face. "Well…then I'll _make_ it change." He rose to his feet, casting a disdainful eye over his friend. "You stay here and make a beggar outta yerself. I'm going to be a sailor. No…I'm going to be a pirate!"

Jacky returned Hector's derisive look with a steady one of his own. "Hec, we're friends n' all but I ain't backin' you in this 'un. A pirate's life ain't high end if ye didn't know."

"It's better n' bein' a beggar what depends on others t'do 'is work." And with that, Hector Haywood turned on a bare heel and marched out of the lean-to. The water on the Thames was orange with the fall sunset. The sails of the docked ships were stark black against the light of the fading sun and Hector could just make out some figures moving to and fro on the docks.

There had to be someone who dealt with such shifty dealings as pirating. A name popped into his head. Sod Henry.

The Broken Fiddle was near empty when Hector came through the front door, teeth chattering in the autumn cold. He spotted Sod Henry sitting on the hearth of the fireplace, sipping at a bowl of soup. Hector felt an excited grin cross his face. He hurried over to the old man. Sod looked up from his food and smiled, showing off his one tooth. "Come back for an encore?" he asked.

"No but I got a question, Sod Henry," Hector said, trying to ignore the smell of the soup and his growling stomach. The old man nodded once.

"And what question be that?"

Hector glanced around the empty tavern and lowered his voice. "How does one go 'bout becomin' a pirate?"

Sod Henry looked puzzled for a moment and fixed the boy with his one eye. "Hmm…odd of sorts question fer a boy ter be askin'."

"Please. I gotta get outta here. I don't got any kinda life here so's I figure I'll go and become as famous as Bloody Finn. You was a pirate once, weren't ya?" The old man sat back a little, looking Hector up and down for a moment.

"I were," he said finally. "But ye do know that the life of a pirate can be thankless. Not all buccaneers get ta be Bloody Finn."

"I know," Hector insisted with a spastic nod.

"And ye know that sometimes life aboard ship can be as trapping as life on the streets?"

"Not possible."

The old man threw back his head and laughed suddenly. "And ye know what to do when another man be comin' up to knock yer block off?"

"I run 'im through!" was the first reply that came to mind.

He laughed again, ruffling the boy's hair. "Then it seems you got what it takes, says I!" Hector grinned in spite of knowing he had no idea how to use a sword. Sod Henry leaned in closer, lowering his own voice. "There be a ship in port at the very end of the docks. She's a full rigger and in need o' a few extra hands. It'll be a right fine learnin' fer ya. Jus' tell Cap'n Teller tha' Sod Henry sent you."

Hector seized the old man's hand and shook it vigorously. "Much obliged, Sod Henry, much obliged. How can I ever thank ye?"

"Change that Haywood name o' yers. Go wiv summat …interestin'." Hector nodded yet again and made for the door. He burst out onto the street and raced for the docks, cold and hunger forgotten.

By the time he reached the end of the docks, the sun had long since set and lanterns were being set out. The very last ship was in sight and Hector could feel his blood pumping. But inwardly, he felt like this was far too easy. Wasn't there supposed to be some kind of difficulty to overcome? Or had just getting up and walking away from Jacky and the kids been the hardest part?

Hector slipped into the shadow of a stack of crates to watch the dark, silent figures move back and forth from a small storage house to the ship. The men looked like pirates – some of them scarred, grimy, grim, and fairly intimidating. But what about the crates they were carrying? Smuggling perhaps.

He jumped as one man's fingers slipped from a carried crate. Wood smacked against wood as the box dropped to the dock. Immediately, an angry hiss lashed out. "Mind yerself, Bellamy, or I'll have your guts fer garters!"

"Aye, sir," Bellamy replied hastily, reclaiming his box and scurrying on board the ship. Hector watched as a tall frightening man stepped into view. The man was dark eyed, dark haired, but light skinned, features testament to a mixed heritage. A large, grand, feathered hat sat atop his greasy black hair. Immediately Hector knew this was Captain Teller. Time for an entrance.

Mere milliseconds before he came out from behind the stack of crates, a growl came from behind him and soon Hector found himself being lifted off his feet. A cry caught in his throat as his would be assailant turned him around in the air. The man that held him aloft was the biggest human he'd ever seen. Not fat but just _huge_. When the man spoke, Hector thought he could hear his bones rattling the pirate's voice was so deep. "Cap'n, it seems to be we got a wee spy 'ere."

The large man hefted Hector a little higher into the air and came out from behind the crates. Captain Teller turned his attention from the working line of men. By this time, Hector's tongue came back to life. "Put me down, ye lily livered galoot!" he declared, swinging a fist at the large man's head. Futile efforts but it got a short laugh out of Captain Teller as he came over.

"Scrappy little cove, ain't ye," he said, looking the struggling boy up and down. "What's yer purpose down here, lad? T'ain't safe for a youngun' like yerself t'be wanderin' alone."

"I been alone most of me life, ye-" Hector stopped himself from calling Teller a cad. "Sir. I wanta join yor crew and be a pirate. Sod Henry sent me."

Teller seemed remotely surprised at his ready reply. "Well now. Any lad sent by Sod Henry's got to be somthin' worth lookin' at. Set the boy down, Meyer." Hector found himself being lowered to the ground. The boy brushed himself of and shot a short scornful look at the large man. Meyer remained unperturbed. "What be yer name, lad?" Teller asked.

Hector opened his mouth to reply but stopped. Sod Henry had told him to lose the name Haywood and he had forgotten to come up with a better one! "Uh…" Teller's expression became amused as he watched Hector cast around.

"Don't got one?"

The boy noticed suddenly the word on the crates the pirates were carrying. Though he wasn't the best reader in London, before his mother died she taught him rudimentary reading skills. The word on one crate said 'Barbados.' That was an interesting name. His new name suddenly came to mind. After moving around some letters and dropping a D and adding an S, Hector smiled inwardly.

"Barbossa. Name's Hector Barbossa."

Teller emitted an 'ah' and nodded sagely. "Well then, Barbossa, wot d'you got that makes you think yer worthy enough to join my crew?"

"I'm fast, I can read, and I can fight. I don't know how yet to use a sword but I learns fast, too." Again, Teller was taken off-guard by the boy's sudden answer.

The captain shot a look towards Meyer. The large man shrugged but he seemed to approve of the scrappy little orphan. The boy had impressed him. Teller grinned, slapping Hector's shoulder lightly, having taken a small liking to him. "Welcome aboard the Kracken then, Hector Barbossa!"

--

AN: So yeah, first attempt at a Barbossa drabble collection. I can see some parts of this getting interpreted as unrealistic or cheesy but I think I'm happy with it. Short, sweet, and to the point. Next drabble is in progress and update-ness depends on what kind of feedback I receive. As I'm not sure how many Barbossa fans there are, I greatly appreciate those who review!


	2. Rum and Steel

-Rum and Steel-

The just-turned night sky overhead was clear and full of stars, the warm Caribbean air filling out the _Kracken_'s sails as she made her way north from Dominique to the famous pirate island of Tortuga, just off the coast of wild Haiti. Above deck there were maybe three men, one at the wheel, another in the crow's nest, and another leaning against the railing across from the wheel. The rest of the crew, Benjamin Teller included, was sleeping below. The man at the wheel was Captain Teller's first mate, Meyer. The large man had barely aged in the past five years, only adding a few more scars to his name and a few more raids under his belt. Teller's pirates weren't the most infamous pirates (they dealt more with smuggling than raiding) but they were garnering a name for themselves easily picking off the fledgling Caribbean colonies.

Meyer cast a short glance at the crew member across from him, snorting once. "Barbossa, you lean any further over tha' railin' n' ye'll fall in. And when ye do, don't 'spect me t'come to yer rescue."

"Never said I would expect ye to. Ye'd sink like a rock anyways," Hector, now seventeen, replied. He'd completely grown out of his scrappy, childhood image and had come into one of a pirate. With the embarrassing period of voice changing over with, it now rated nearly intimidating on Teller's scale.

Shaggy brown hair brushed his shoulders and a blue-green bandana kept said hair out of his face. A faint dusting of a beard dotted his chin. As for dress, he wore common articles of clothing suitable for life at sea – loose, formerly white shirt (now mostly grey), tan vest, a leather glove without fingers on one hand for hauling in line and such, suitable pants tucked into the tops of a pair of folded down boots. The dark blue-grey overcoat he usually wore had no place on a warm night like this night. And, of course, he wore a sword on his belt and pistol beside it.

Since coming aboard the _Kracken_, he'd learned quite a bit about sword fighting from the masters among the crew, Teller included. Even Meyer admitted Barbossa had great skill with a blade in spite of only carrying one for four and a half years now. The freedom he'd longed for as a child was finally his. The former street orphan had come into his own and couldn't be more suited for his piratical role. Teller considered him a son, nay, a protégé.

Every captain, even those who ruled their ships with iron fists and fear, were paranoid of mutiny, even from their own first mates. Well, most sensible captains, at least. After all, it could be said that it was the pirates that came up with the saying, "_Never trust a pirate_." And, while Teller had taken a liking to young Hector, it was Hector Barbossa he feared the most. The pirate captain had recognized Barbossa's fearful potential, even at a young age. The lad had a clever wit about him and had already turned a few conversations completely around with a single word or phrase. He was quickly becoming the type that could be your best friend for a hundred years and then slip a blade between your ribs.

Meyer scoffed at Barbossa's reply. "Sink like a rock my arse. Mind yer tongue, whelp, or I'll tear it out." The threat was all in good fun but even Barbossa knew that Meyer wouldn't hesitate to do what he intended. Barbossa shrugged it off, though. He moved away from the railing and sat down on the stairs leading down from the wheel deck to the main deck.

"So what's in Tortuga?" he asked after a short moment. At the wheel, Meyer felt a grin split his feature and a deep chuckle rumbled up from his chest.

"Wine, women, and song."

"Apart from the usual, Meyer."

"The cap'n's got a …business transaction to execute." Barbossa looked over his shoulder at the large man, noting his phrasing of the sentence.

"So much fer bein' a 'umble pirate, mate. Most middle class folk ain't bein' seen wiv fancy words like that," he said, quirking one eyebrow.

"It don't hurt to know 'em."

His reply came in the form of a single nod and silence fell between them. Barbossa took to looking at his hands. He was poked fun at for them. "Heccy's got lady's hands," some of the more despicable crew members would jeer. But, being the kind of fellow he was, Barbossa would silence these jeers with either a well-planned retort or better yet, a swift blow with a fist twixt their eyes.

The sound of a door opening snapped Barbossa out of his thoughts. Teller appeared from his cabin, stretching and placing his feathered hat on his head with a flourish. Even after five years of knowing the man, Barbossa still didn't know how old Teller was or where he came from. He had aged slightly, a few grey strands creeping into his black mane of hair. "Luffly night fer a stroll, eh boys?" he called out.

Three "aye, cap'n"s came back at him, the one from Willard up in the crow's nest muffled by the distance. Fiddling with a button on his jacket, Teller meandered up the stairs to the wheel deck. "That cargo still down in the hold, Meyer?" he asked.

"Aye. I got Williams n' Bellamy watchin' the place."

Teller's expression soured slightly at the mention of Bellamy. "That ruddy Scot. If 'e weren't a devil o' a rigging runner I'd have left 'im on that island south of the Straits. Clumsy oaf… 'Ow he manages to work the shrouds like a monkey and then trip over his own two blasted feet while walking down a gangplank is beyond me."

Meanwhile, Barbossa was wondering what this mysterious cargo was. More importantly, he wondered why he wasn't in cahoots with Teller, Meyer, Williams, and Bellamy. He hadn't even been informed of the impromptu stop at a no name, little island several leagues off Jamaica. There weren't even any questions asked when the captain had the crew load about a baker's dozen unmarked crates. He was about to speak up when Willard's voice came from the crow's nest. "Land hooooo!" he called out. "Lights on the horizon!"

The three other men on deck looked out past the bowsprit to find a dim light twinkling in the distance. Barbossa got to his feet, eyes narrowing to try and see the dark blot of land. "Tortuga?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Aye, lad," Teller began with a smile. "Tortuga."

--

They made good time with the tide and warm wind and docked about two hours after sighting the reputed pirate port. The crew was excited. They hadn't made a stop in Tortuga in a few years, their last having been before Barbossa joined the crew.

With the _Kracken_ docked, the crew scurried off into the Caribbean night but, not before they assisted in loading the two dozen unmarked crates into a cart. Barbossa, having gotten over being left out of the inner circle, was in the process of heading off to enjoy himself when Teller called him out. "Hector, with us. You'll get yer free time in a bit. 'Elp Bellamy and Williams with this cart."

Teller was probably the only man who ever called him Hector any more and this was because only he had the authority to do so. As stated, Barbossa generally flattened those who called him by childhood nicknames like Heccy or Hec. The only reason Barbossa didn't ask questions was because he knew that when Teller did call him by his first name, something serious was going on. "Aye, sir," he stated and made a place at the rear of the cart to push. Williams and Bellamy took to the front to pull.

An hour later, Barbossa was still pushing and Williams and Bellamy were still pulling. Teller and Meyer walked a few paces ahead, locked in quiet conversation. They had long since left the docks and were probably to China by now. Overwhelmed with the desire to say _something_, he poked his head around the side of the cart. "Oi, Bell," he hissed. The Scotsman glanced over his shoulder.

"What?"

"Where the blazes are we goin'?"

Bellamy shook his head. "Keep yer trousers on, Barbossa. Ye'll see when we get there."

If anything, Bellamy was as stubborn as he was clumsy. And Williams was partly deaf so it would be impossible to get his attention. Barbossa heaved a sigh. "Can ye at least tell me wot we're carryin'?"

"No!"

Barbossa rolled his eyes and continued pushing the cart along. He soon lost himself in counting the wood grains on the back of the cart, noting how the boards would soon probably buckle under the weight of the crates and fall apart on the street. So lost he was, he nearly walked straight into the back of the cart when it stopped abruptly.

Looking around, he noticed that they had stopped in a dark, empty alleyway. It was a tight little street with maybe two feet of clearance on either side of the cart. He could hear the middle tones of Teller's voice and an occasional rumble from Meyer. Squeezing past the cart, he came to find about eight unfamiliar figures detaching themselves from various shadows and making for the cart. Barbossa couldn't keep his eyes from narrowing as a prickle raised the hairs on the back of his neck. One hand strayed absently to the butt of his pistol.

Williams and Bellamy stood placidly at the front of cart, for all the world looking completely at ease. Even Teller and Meyer seemed genial. Was Barbossa the only one who felt something?

The leader of the eight stepped forward into the moonlight, not nearly as impressive in the light as he had been in shadow. The pirate, for it was obviously a pirate, was a scrawny, weasel-faced Spaniard. Barbossa was floored. After all the pre-battle prickles he'd just experienced, he had expected someone a bit more…convincing. Teller spoke, breaking the short recess of silence. "Ah, Renaldo. Long time no see, mate. I notice ye've got yerself some new lads," he said offering out one hand.

Renaldo stepped forward and grasped Teller's hand, shaking it. "I had to lose a couple of my old ones. Can't find good help these day. I see you have a new one of your own." The man nodded towards Barbossa, a knowing grin crossing his face. "He looks to be a bit green, says I."

Barbossa tried not to retort and barely succeeded. He kept his hand casually on his pistol. Something still didn't feel right. Renaldo looked back to Teller. "You have it then? That haul doesn't look like the right amount."

"We been havin' some trouble wiv the relay. Brewster didn't show in Tripoli so I'm assumin' he ran into some lobsters."

Renaldo seemed to accept this. "Open one of the crates. I need to see it before handing over your payment." Teller nodded and motioned to Williams and Bellamy. Barbossa stood back and watched as Bellamy clambered into the pack cart to pry open a crate with his knife. Gingerly, as if he was reaching for the most precious substance in the world, he lowered his hand into the crate. He lifted a faded glass bottle from the crate, in which swirled an amber fluid.

"There t'is, mate. The finest rum this side o' the world," Teller said as Bellamy handed the bottle over to him. He wrenched the cork out of the bottle with a grunt and offered it to Renaldo. The Spaniard seemed to take it gladly and drank of the alcohol. For Barbossa, it all came together. Not only was Teller a pirate and a smuggler, he was a rum runner as well. A lot things made sense now – their constant traveling, the wide range of said travels to places like Tripoli, London and the Caribbean.

The Spaniard smacked his lips as he lowered the bottle. "Nature's own sweet nectar," he said, handing the bottle back to Teller.

"And the payment?"

Renaldo signaled over his shoulder and the seven other figures emerged from the shadows. And they each pointed a pistol at Teller and his crew. "What's all this?" Teller demanded. The Spaniard sighed.

"We known each other for a long time, eh Teller? I been payin' you, Brewster, and MacLean for goin' on ten years to get rum to this place. But, now we got a nice store of it here and frankly, we don't need you anymore. 'Sides, I don't feel like payin'." Renaldo pulled a pistol of his own from his belt. "It's for the best if you just turn n' walk away, Ben."

Teller's visage had gone from cordial to furious. "I'll be damned if I give this cache up to a bit o' slime like you," he spat.

"Then be damned." While this short exchange of insults went on, Barbossa pulled out his pistol, cocked it, and as soon as Renaldo's finger began squeezing the trigger, he dropped the traitorous Spaniard in his tracks. Immediately, the sound of seven other pistols went off. Thinking of his own skin first, Barbossa dived back behind the cart as a ball of lead just nicked his shoulder.

Bellamy managed to dive off the back end of the cart to land beside Barbossa. Poor Williams had been caught by Renaldo's crew, his life blood now pooling on the cobblestones around him. The hiss of swords coming out rang sharply in Barbossa's ears, prompting him to do the same. Bellamy was sitting up against the back of the cart in what looked like a state of shock. "Bell, snap out of it, ye twit!" Barbossa snapped, slapping the man. The man just jumped and stared at him, witless. Out front, there was a beast like roar and he knew it was Meyer.

The man was bellowing like a bull, hacking at the nearest opponents and even smashing one against the wall with a large hand. Forgetting about Bellamy with a snarl, Barbossa leapt out and made for the fight that was now in motion. A blade flashed before him and he soon found himself in a fight of two against one. Farther up the alley, Teller was engaged with another two. Even from a distance, Barbossa could tell his captain was wounded. But Ben Teller would have to wait.

This was another of his favorite parts of being a pirate. Adrenaline-high duels between other pirates against overwhelming odds in tight places. Finally in an element where he could let loose, Barbossa felt his feet take over for him, executing constantly drilled movements within picture perfect precision. But of course, that wicked streak in him had to come into play. An unexpected sucker punch to one man's gut doubled the pirate over his fist. Down came Barbossa's sword. Down went one opponent. Only one to go.

The man didn't seem impressed by the young man's moves and continued to fight on. It was against this man that Barbossa would receive a small bit of humbling. When the dark-haired man side stepped into him instead of parrying, Barbossa was taken a bit off guard. The man's blade flashed and he barely had time to whip his head back. Still, he didn't move fast enough. The very tip of the blade inflicted a three inch long cut down the left side of his face, just under his eye.

Clapping a hand to the cut, Barbossa wheeled away from the man's follow up swing. "Give it up, whelp," his opponent stated, close on his heels. "You won't beat the likes o' me!" Barbossa curled a lip, wiping away the blood that ran down his cheek. Their swords came together at the hilts as they locked blades. The man's face was unpleasantly close to his.

"That's the problem with pirates like yerself. Yer all talk," Barbossa retorted, landing a kick on the man's knee. A strange thing happened then. As his opponent's face twisted in pain and fury, he noted the man seemed vaguely familiar. He skipped backwards a few steps, trying to put a name with the face before him. Meanwhile, the man had lurched back to his feet and was in the process of charging. "Jacky?"

The name in question form brought the man to a sudden halt. "Jacky Thomas?" For a moment that lasted an eternity, the two stared at each other. Finally, the man spoke, recognition dawning on his face.

"Hector?"

Barbossa didn't know whether to laugh or run the fellow through. He opened his mouth to say something when Meyer called out to him. "Barbossa, move yer sorry arse afore I move it!" the big man cried, bashing the man he fought directly on the top of the head. "'Elp the captain!"

Forgetting instantly about Jacky, Barbossa wheeled around and made for Teller. The wounded pirate had beaten one of his opponents but the other still fought on stubbornly. The man knocked Teller backwards into the wall of a building and advanced, blade raised. Barbossa beat him to the punch. He lunged, driving his sword into the man's side. Then, all in one motion, he pushed the man around and flashed his blade across the pirate's gullet. With a gurgle, the man toppled over backwards and was silent.

"Well done, lad," Teller said through his teeth. Barbossa turned to look at his captain. It was obvious the man was in pain; one hand was clutched to his side and slowly turning red from the wound.

Meanwhile, Meyer had finished with his own fight and had hurried over just in time to catch Teller as he collapsed, Barbossa close behind him. Upon closer observation, Teller was senseless from blood loss. "We got t'get him back to Kipper," the first mate said hastily, gathering up the smaller man in his arms.

"Aye," Barbossa replied, bending to pick up Teller's sword and feathered hat, both of which had fallen to the ground. The sword he stuck in his belt next to his. And the hat he placed on his head. It was nice fit. He ran a finger along the brim and was wishing for a mirror when he remembered the cart. "Wait, what about the rum?"

Meyer paused as he passed the loaded cart to look at it. "You n' Bellamy take it back," he decided after a short moment of thought. "Tortuga ain't that dry. I'll go ahead to the ship." Without waiting for a reply, the first mate hurried off into the darkness.

At the mention of his name, Bellamy poked his head out from behind the cart. He was pale and shaking like a leaf. Barbossa couldn't keep from curling a lip at the sight. "C'mon, you coward," he spat, gesturing towards the cart. "Let's get this thing back to the ship."

"Hector…Barbossa?" Jacky's voice made Barbossa stop and turn to his fellow orphan.

"Aye, that's me name," he replied irately, stepping swiftly towards Jacky. His next move came unexpected to the other. Jacky toppled backwards as Barbossa's fist connected squarely with his jaw. "Ye back stabbin' hypocrite! What in blue blazes d'ye think yer doin' here? You're no pirate!"

"I came lookin' fer you, Hec!" Jacky returned, holding the now bruised side of his face. "Life on the streets got t'be too much. I 'ad to do _something_. What ye said 'bout becomin' a beggar got to me. The others all move on 'afore I did. There was nothin' left fer me in London."

"So ye got in with Renaldo's lil' gang n' decided to shoot some rum runners, eh?"

"I didn't know!"

"Exactly. You don't know nothin' about pirates," Barbossa replied with a sneer. "Go home, Jacky. Ye aren't cut out fer this life. You had plenty o' chances just now to run me through, but did ye do it? There isn't a violent bone to your name."

"But Hec-"

"Go home. And if I e'er see you play actin' like a pirate again, I'll kill you on the grounds that you was lookin' at me comical." The shocked expression on his former friend's face went by unnoticed as Barbossa turned on one heel without waiting for a reply, leaving poor Jacky up against a wall bewildered, bruised, and seven of his fellows dead in the alley.

Barbossa and Bellamy set to picking up the dead Williams and flopped him over a crate in the cart. Then, with some exertion, they began pushing the cart back out of the alley. Both men were silent, the younger with a cold, cruel expression and the older quiet in an effort to avoid setting off the other.

--

Kipp Toolles, or "Kipper" as the crew called him, was the _Kracken_'s surgeon. Or carpenter. Or navigator. Or whatever anyone needed him to be. Kipper was a jack of all trades and his hands were the most important things he carried with him. Before he became a pirate, he'd been the son of a wealthy, wealthy familiar living in Bristol and, at his mother's request, apprenticed to nearly every artisan or craftsman in West Country. Hence his skill in so many trades. But, after being forced to stick his fingers in way too many pies so to speak, eighteen-year-old Kipper fled England for a life on the edge and became a pirate in Benjamin Teller's rum runner crew.

The night Meyer brought said captain into the sick bay, Kipper knew it would be hopeless to try and save the man's life. By the time Barbossa and Bellamy got back, returned the crates and gave Williams a proper burial at sea, it was too late. Meyer and Kipp were standing out on deck when they came up from below. "Meyer, how be the captain?" Barbossa asked, wiping sweat from his brow. Bellamy hung a little farther away, still afraid to say anything lest someone remember his cowardice. Meyer didn't beat around the bush. "Ben Teller be dead, lad," the first mate said, unperturbed as always.

For some reason, the news didn't shock Barbossa as much as he thought it would. Nor did he feel much sorrow about it. None of the others seemed to be upset either but Barbossa knew that Meyer and Teller had been close friends. The big man could hide emotion as if he had merely stuck it in his pocket. Kipper had never really known Teller all that well. Sure, he looked a little downcast, but then again he seemed a little downcast whenever a crew member died or was killed. As for Barbossa, Ben Teller had been the father he never had. Or at least, the semblance of one. Yet, he still didn't feel like it was something worth crying over.

He wandered over to where the first mate and surgeon were standing. The three cast looks at each other a moment before any of them spoke. "Barbossa, you be the spittin' image o' Teller in that bloody hat," Kipper said, noting the feathered hat. Meyer rumbled out a chuckle in consensus. The younger man glanced up at the hat, having forgotten he put the thing on in the first place.

"I'd almost forgotten about it…" he said, removing the hat and holding it in his hands.

"Keep it," Meyer said with a shrug. "I don't think the captain woulda minded anyways." Barbossa was glad that the first mate suggested keeping it as he did rather like it.

"So you're captain now, Meyer?" Kipper asked.

"I hadn't thought about it." He scratched at his head in thought. "I suppose I am, then."

"When ye plannin' on alertin' the crew?"

"Whene're they get back from their lil' outin's."

"Who's a-gonna be first mate, then?" Bellamy's almost tentative voice broke into their casual banter. Meyer fixed the man with a scowl, remembering the fight back in the alley. Bellamy practically withered under his gaze.

"Get off my ship, Bellamy." Without any word of protest, the Scotsman was gone. Kipper and Barbossa looked after the man with some amusement, inwardly glad the clumsy coward was out of their hair. "Barbossa, you be first mate," Meyer said suddenly.

"What?" the younger man asked, somewhat surprised at the impromptu promotion. Meyer nodded in emphasis, laying a large hand on Barbossa's shoulder.

"Yer first mate, lad."

--

AN: Thanks to all who reviewed! If anything, I'd hoped these drabbles would attract at least someone. Again, thank you thank you. I'll try and get the next drabble up sometime this week, as I'm free for spring break!


	3. Wave on Wave

(--- time/setting change)

* * *

-In Which Hector Meets Sophia and Spends his Last Day Aboard the _Kracken_-

"Gents…here's to Ben Teller, the best runner this side o' the Atlantic."

"Aye!"

"Amen to that."

Five pints came together over a card strewn table, rum sloshing over the rims at the contact. Around the table were five pirates, three of which had women of questionable natures perched on their laps or on the edge of the table. The smoke-filled pub on Tortuga was as wild as ever but full of good cheer. A band had struck up a merry jig in the corner.

It had been eight years ago that day that the late Captain Benjamin Teller died of a gunshot wound from a former ally, also late. From the original crew, there were few left other than Meyer, Barbossa, Kipper, Willard, and a few other notables. The crew, now captained by Meyer, was making their annual run in Tortuga. The rum running business hadn't been as profitable as in earlier years and, as the Caribbean turned out to be quite the hot spot between the Spanish and English, pirating was at its finest. And ever since they decided to become resident Caribbean pirates, the crew of the _Kracken_ was well known as one of the more prosperous crews in the Spanish Main.

The five pirates present were Willard the lookout, Captain Meyer, Barbossa the first mate, Kipper the surgeon, and the newest addition to the crew, a string bean of a man named Toby Coggs, Coggs for short. In the middle of the table was a small pile made up of rings, coins, and a hat. The group played a home made card game Willard liked to call lucky pairs, a peculiar mix of hearts, and poker.

"These two," whispered one of the women present, a dark haired, green eyed beauty standing behind Barbossa. She gestured to, of Barbossa's two sets of pairs, the pair of eights. The first mate leaned back a little so his voice wouldn't carry, taking a look at his cards.

"Those two?" he queried, glancing up at her. According to Willard's rules, he was losing; the only man left with four cards while the others had only three or two. She nodded, resting one hand on his shoulder with a painted smile. "And yer quite serious?"

The woman leaned in to speak into his ear, one hand reaching up to fiddle with the ostrich feather in his hat. "For this round, it's the highest pair. The others are bluffing. Save the kings for the next round."

Kipper, with a blonde woman seated in his lap, took notice of the quiet conversation. "Have a cards expert over yer shoulder, Barbossa?" he asked with a grin.

"One better'n yers, Kipp," the first mate replied with a smirk. The blonde woman made a face at him from across the table. Barbossa only laughed.

"A'right, a'right, enough chit-chat. Throw down yer cards," Willard said, laying down a pair of sevens. Kipper reluctantly threw down a pair of fours. Meyer had to reach for the deck to draw two cards since he didn't have any pairs. Glancing to his left, he rolled his eyes.

"Coggs, get yer head n' the game, ye fiend," he said, punching the newcomer on the shoulder. Coggs broke away from the red headed woman with a start.

"Oh… Sorry." Flushing, he hurriedly put down two mismatched cards before realizing it. The others at the table laughed and phrases like "Steady there, Coggs," or "Look at 'im beamer!" were stated.

"Your go, Barbossa," Willard said, a pre-mature victorious smile on his face as his pair was the winning pair so far. Barbossa shared a quick, knowing look with the woman over his shoulder.

"Read 'em n' weep, lads," he said placing his eights on the table top before him. The entire group groaned in unison as the first mate leaned forward to claim the small pile of assorted goods and tip it into his pockets. He tossed the tri-corn hat back to Kipper. "Seems my card expert knows 'er stuff, eh Sophia?" The strumpet behind him laughed.

"Of all the unluckiest coves, we 'ad to lose a round o' pairs to Hector Barbossa," Willard stated, shaking his head slowly.

"Oi, mind ye, one day folk'll be sayin' my name in fear!" the first mate declared, waving a fist in the air.

"Whatever ya say, Barbossa," Meyer said with a laugh. "But afore that, ye get t'be rum boy." The captain shoved his empty tankard across the table at Barbossa as the first mate groaned. Willard and Kipper handed over their own pints as well. Though, Barbossa had spectacularly managed to live past the age of twenty living a life on the high seas, Meyer and Kipper still saw him as that scrappy little kid they'd picked up on the docks in London.

"Aye aye, cap'n, but tenderfoot over there can get 'is rum 'is own self if he e'er decides to come up fer air," Barbossa replied as he gathered up the empty pints, nodding towards Coggs, who was caught back up with the red head. The others roared with laughter as Barbossa, with Sophia holding on to the crook of his elbow, made towards the bar.

"So first mates take orders like cabin boys?" Sophia asked, turning a coy eye to him. Barbossa returned the look with one of his own, a mixture of offended pride and venom in his expression.

"A captain's a captain and his word is law, as the Code goes. Or somethin' like that."

"But you're a pirate, ain't you? I thought pirate's didn't follow the rules," she returned innocently.

"Don't try that with me, missy. While we're bloody well scallywags, we do 'ave a bit o' honor to our names."

"If ye say so." By this time, they'd reached the bar. Barbossa motioned for round of four, simultaneously reaching into his pocket for the money he'd just won. Sophia leaned conspicuously up against the bar next to him. Her green eyes strayed from the pirate and floated across the room. Almost instantly, they locked with another pair of eyes, dark and alight with fury. She blanched with a gasp as she recognized the man storming across the crowded room.

Barbossa took notice and looked over at her. "Somethin' wrong?" he asked, following her frantic gaze to the man who was just now approaching them.

"You need to go," Sophia insisted suddenly, trying to push him away.

"Why? Who is that?"

"No one! Just go before he kills you!" But by then, it was a tad too late for Barbossa to leave. The angry man came to a straight-backed halt about a half stride before him. Just as grimy and dirt riddled as every other man in the pub, he was obviously a pirate. And the muscles bulging under his shirt would have intimidated any other man.

"What you think you are doing with _my_ woman?" the man demanded, his accent clearly stating he was Spanish. Barbossa curled a lip. This man was a bold one indeed.

"What do ye think?" Though the man stood eye to eye with him and was probably a good few pounds heavier strength wise, Barbossa wasn't going to stand down. The Spanish pirate's next move wasn't wholly unexpected but the first mate had to admit to himself later that he hadn't been wholly prepared for it either. A fist connected with his eye and Barbossa staggered backwards into the bar, a black eye now added to his list of features.

Around them, motion ceased to watch the confrontation. Barbossa recovered after a few seconds to watch the Spanish pirate take Sophia by the arm and begin heading for the exit. Not about to be shown up by another, he seized a bottle from a nearby observer and chucked it at the Spanish man's head. The glass shattering against the back of his head halted the pirate in his tracks, Sophia along with him. He turned a wildly furious eye upon Barbossa. Releasing his grip on Sophia, he was suddenly face to face with the pirate. "You challenge Alexandro Gomez?" he cried.

"I ain't askin' ye t' dance," Barbossa retorted with a snarl. His usually hooded eyes were alight with challenge. Some other random observer cried out.

"Duel! Guns at ten paces!" Immediately, the crowd of watchers cheered in agreement.

"Here! Now!" Gomez insisted, jabbing a finger at the floor.

"Took the words right outta me mouth, mate," came the reply. The crowd cheered again, parting like a wave to allow the two men to form up and begin their paces. By now, the entire pub had ceased their merriment to watch. Out of the corner of his eye, Barbossa could see Meyer and the others at the edge of the crowd. Sophia stood anxiously off to the side as well, trying to plead with Barbossa and Gomez at the same time. Her begging fell on deaf ears.

The two men moved to stand face to face in the middle of the open floor. "That's a nice pistol ye got there," Barbossa observed, nodding towards the ornate gun at the other pirate's belt.

"You like?" Gomez hefted the weapon. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship – silver decorated the pistol in intricate designs and metal skulls had been molded onto the butt of the weapon. "I will use it to kill you."

"We'll see," came the reply as Barbossa pulled his own pistol out. On a cue from the random observer who had called the duel, the two pivoted on their heels. The observer counted out ten paces. Every person in the pub had gone dead silent. Tension was thick in the air as the observer paused to glance at each man.

"Ready…Pull!" Seemingly simultaneously, the two pirates whirled around as they cocked their pistols. While they both were quick on the draw, Barbossa had whipped up his weapon, aimed, and fired all in the same movement. Gomez didn't.

So that night Hector Barbossa walked out of that Tortuga pub one pistol richer. As for Sophia, he came to find out she'd played him the entire time just to get someone to rid her of Gomez. Needless to say, Barbossa walked out one woman less as well, leaving Sophia to find someone else to hang on to.

Everything went wrong after that.

-----

The scene reminded him of a story that an old man once told him in a tavern. Lightning flashed. Thunder split the skies. Rain poured from ominous thick black clouds and the wind shrieked and howled through the sails and rigging. But never had he thought that weathering such a hellacious squall would prove so difficult on a rare little two-masted full rigger in the Caribbean.

Teller's _Kracken_ lurched over the side of a large, black wave and sent the scurrying crew staggering across the deck. Every man was thankful for the invention of the lifeline, a solitary rope tied off to a mast that kept them aboard the ship. As the ship cleared the wave, the keel smacked back down on the water with a crash and a groan of timber.

Barbossa felt the deck leap beneath his feet and pull them out from under him. He met the soaked wood with a thud but managed to clamber back to his feet. His senses were being overwhelmed. The roar of the wind and surf deafened him, the sting of spray numbed his skin and burned his eyes, the smell and taste of salt clogged his mouth and nose. The audible snap of rope cracked through the roar and a voice nearby called out. "Secure the deck cannons!"

Obeying automatically, Barbossa made for the nearest gun. The long nine was starting to slide across the deck, the ropes that had formerly held it in place now waving wildly in the wind. Barbossa dived upon the cannon, scrambling for the loose rope. After nearly being washed overboard and tossed flat onto the deck, he managed to retie the ropes. Holding onto the cannon for support, Barbossa threw up his head to look towards the ship's wheel.

The thing bucked like a wild beast and Captain Meyer was the only man strong enough to keep a minimal handle on it. A fierce expression of determination had long since seized his features, his teeth gritted against the wind and stinging rain. Lightning broke through the clouds just over his right shoulder, lighting up the deck.

It was a hoarse, frantic near-scream that broke his gaze from the captain. "_Wave_!" Barbossa didn't get the chance to see who it was. He barely turned in time to see the sheer, writhing underbelly of a wave rising like a hellish maw on the port side of the _Kracken_. It would be the singularly most frightening thing the twenty-five year old Barbossa had ever encountered. The entire crew froze as the peak of the wave seemed to hang above them for a moment. After that, it seemed like the entire world had crashed onto the deck.

The impact of the wave knocked Barbossa from his feet and sent him spiraling across the deck. Pain blossomed in his shoulder as he struck the wood once. His eyes squeezed shut and, caught by the pull of the water, he could only hang on to his life line as he felt himself go over the railing of the ship. And when the tremendously taut line went suddenly limp in his hands, Barbossa felt his blood run cold. The wave carried him with it on its way back into the sea.

For a long frantic moment, the water trapped him below the surface and he tumbled with the current. His eyes came open at about this time but all he could see was black. Finally, as lightning crashed above the surface of the water, the dark world lit up momentarily. The current released its deadly grip on him and Barbossa shot upwards, his broken lifeline trailing behind him. He broke the surface coughing to rid his lungs of seawater. Dimly, the rain-blurred silhouette of the _Kracken _loomed above the waves about a chain length away. That was when Barbossa felt his hope drain away.

As if this last brief image of his home for the past eleven years was a rare privilege, the ruthless current sucked him back under. Like he'd done so for his entire life, Barbossa fought to stay conscious, to stay alive. But, the cruel mistress that was the sea refused to allow him breath. He wondered then, if anyone would notice he was gone. His vision began to darken around the edges and finally, darkness claimed him.

-----

Light. That was strange. He shouldn't be headed for the light. In fact, as a pirate, he should have been falling towards the fires. Suddenly, the light grew fierce and he had to close his eyes tighter to block it out. Then, slowly, sound washed over him. Birds singing. The dull rumble of surf. The sound of the wind hissing over sand. _What the blazes…?_ A hissing sound breaks past the others and he comes to realize that was him breathing.

All at once Barbossa came alive, throat burning and sea water, bile, and whatever he'd eaten last suddenly all over the already wet sand next to him. Coughing and gasping at the same time, he rolled over. Pain erupted again in his shoulder but he barely registered it. His fingers dug into the damp sand, as if trying to help his mind figure out what he was seeing. Land? Was this land? He could feel again. A wave of water shot up his legs as a small wave came in from the sea. He angled his head up to look around.

He was on a beach. Maybe only fifty feet in front of him was the rest of the island and it looked to be pure jungle from its very beginning at the white sand. He was alive. Not dead. Moving and breathing! Though his legs felt like rubber even while lying partially in the surf, Barbossa struggled to get to his feet. At first, this had seemed like a good idea. But, as vertigo took over his functions, his befuddled mind judged it now to be a bad one. The sand rushed up to meet him and he found himself back on the ground.

Another sound enters the scene but darkness was starting to claim him again before he could see what it was. The last thing he saw was an ebon-skinned, dread lock framed face with wide, curious eyes staring down at him.

---

AN: Hope you enjoyed this, as I had a devil of a time waiting for Admin. to fix the little problem with my uploading capabilities. It made me rather angry. But, I had lots of time to work on the rest of the chapters and am now finished with chapter seven! Yay! So, as expected, I'll have the next chapter up as soon as you folks get the chance to read it.

The Spanish fellow in this chapter was based off the reference in the POTC visual guide, stating that Barbossa won his pistol in a duel with a Spanish pirate.


	4. Alliteration

(---- small time/setting change)

(_Monkey's point of view_)

* * *

-Mystics...-

The smell of incense and a throbbing ache in his shoulder made Barbossa's eyelids flutter open. It took a long moment for his vision to focus, during which he tried to piece together memories from the past twenty four hours. Tortuga, the storm, being washed overboard, and finally coming to on an unfamiliar beach. Now he found himself lying flat out on a bed that was in a strange, exotic looking room. One wall seemed to be made entirely out of sea weed and fish netting. An ancient desk that looked to be made of ebony or some dark wood sat against a different wall, literally covered in various knickknacks and strange items. On the walls themselves were a manner of pelts, maps, and tapestries. The bed was the only plain, common-place item in the room. The next question was: where on the Earth was this room?

Barbossa, having gotten his eyeful of the strange place, checked himself over to make sure nothing was missing. Sword, pistol, rings, bandana, coat, clothes…check. His feet garbed in holey socks looked up at him from the foot of the bed. The only peculiarity was a strange weight hanging from his right ear. One hand reached up to find some sort of large earring there. Odd. He didn't remember ever having an earring. Oh well. He'd have time to look at it later.

Glancing around, he found his boots to be sitting on the floor next to the bed. A look of dismay crossed his features when he suddenly didn't feel his hat on his head. The thing had probably been lost to the sea, a small price but one Barbossa hadn't wanted to pay. He sat up slowly and was thankful that he could do so without blacking out. A sound from outside the room drew his attention momentarily. A woman's voice was humming a strange, haunting tune along with what he assumed to be a music box. The sound sent a ripple of goose bumps over his skin.

He was in the process of putting his boots on when the song stopped and the seaweed curtain parted. There, holding his hat in her hands stood one of the most outlandish women he'd ever seen. Long, matted dread locks fell over her shoulders and down her back, short ones in the front partly obscuring her eyes. Bits of feather and other assorted things poked out here and there. And what to say of her dress…about as grimy as some of the worst pirates Barbossa had seen, with various charms or trinkets sown in here or hanging from there. From head to toe, the ebon-skinned woman was the epitome of the word exotic. But what seemed to garner the most attention about her was her eyes; large, red-rimmed, dark brown irises lit with a mixture of eloquence, mischief, coyness, and knowing.

A smile parted her features, showing off a set of not too pearly white teeth. "So ye wake. I were beginnin' to wondah if ye'd evah do so." Barbossa could only stare at her, a befuddled expression on his face. This seemed to amuse the woman, for she laughed. "I fixed yor hat," she stated and tossed it at him like a frisbee. Still unable to get a reign over his tongue, Barbossa managed to catch the thing. Looking it over he noticed stitches where there hadn't been any and the holes that used to be there were patched over. The old feather was gone to be replaced by one with a bluish cast.

"I-" he began. But by then, she'd disappeared back out of the room. Jamming the hat on his head, he hurried out after her. Another freakish room now stood before him. Dozens of bottles containing such oddities from eyeballs to fluid-trapped animals hung from the ceiling. Lit candles were everywhere. Like the other room, a number of strange things hung on the walls and also, it was amazingly cluttered. A tale that Kipper once told to the crew on the _Kracken_ came to mind, one about a sea witch who lived in a bayou. The little house, if could have called such, eerily fit Kipper's description. Thinking of the _Kracken_ had Barbossa wondering if she'd made it through the storm and if her crew was still alive. However, the more pressing matter was the present situation.

In the middle of the room was a table and at the table sat the woman. She seemed to be puzzling over what looked like a pile of bones decorated in peculiar, blocky designs, like something from the Aztecs. Making sure he kept clear of stepping on something, Barbossa maneuvered towards the table. "I imagine ye be wonderin' how ye got here?" the woman asked suddenly, her focus still entirely aimed at the bones.

"I do wonder," Barbossa replied warily, taking a seat at the table across from her. He tried to avoid staring at the stuffed bats and various animals parts in the middle of the table. "I also be wonderin' who ye are and why ye took me here." The music box he'd heard was over near the pile of bones. Upon closer observation, Barbossa noticed the cover seemed to be a mixture of squid, human, and crab.

"T'ansah yuhr first question, I found you out on de beach. Ye'd been washed up dhere after de storm. As fuhr yer second question, I be Tia Dalma, island mystic. And de third…" She looked up at him with a smile that was chilling and friendly at the same time. "Let's just say dhere's soomthin' distinctive 'bout you, Hector Haywood."

The mention of his name nearly had Barbossa out of his chair. "Ye know my name. …How?"

"A lot 'bout a man ye can tell from him eyes," Tia Dalma replied, her smile now seeming to say I-know-something-you-don't-yet. She leaned back in her chair, prodding at her pile of bones. "Like what him been through, who 'im is, and where him be goin'." Barbossa fixed her with a searching look, eyes narrowed. Her own gaze flicked back up to meet his. "And ye'll be goin' some bizarre places."

"And where be that?"

"Should I tell ye, dhen ye'd never go dhere and ye won't be the man ye will in de future," she said, her expression now mischievous. By now Barbossa was fully convinced that Tia Dalma was insane.

"All right. Then don't tell me." Clearing his throat, he stood up. "I must thank ye, miss, fer takin' me in."

"Don' be t'ankin' me just yet."

Barbossa tried to keep from rolling his eyes. "Then I don't thank ye. Now, where's the nearest port?"

Tia Dalma laughed as if asking for the nearest port was something funny. She now stood up and made for the door, beckoning for him to follow. "Come. I show ye." He followed her out onto a small porch. The entire house was supported by stilts he came to find. Below it was a small dock and the water of a bayou. The jungle on the banks of the bayou was thick and lush with a canopy so thick, that the sun was blocked out. It was a veritable waste land, the only other life in sight that of the jungle. Barbossa now knew why Tia Dalma had laughed at him for asking for a port. She climbed down a ladder leading to the dock, Barbossa close behind her. A raft was tied off onto one of the posts. The mystic set about untying the raft. "Dhere be a man up rivah with a one-man lugger. Ye may be able te barter it from 'im fer a price," she said, moving now onto the raft. Her attitude had shifted to something akin to impersonal. Barbossa stepped on after her, the flat thing shifting uncomfortably beneath his feet.

After grabbing a long, thin stick, Tia Dalma shoved them off and the raft began moving down the deep channel running into the bayou. For the entire ride, neither of them spoke. Barbossa let his eyes look down at the dark water sliding by. _What now?_ he asked himself._ Lord only knows where the Kracken is. I wonder if they even miss me… _The pirate snorted then, dismissing the very thought. Ludicrous. They'd probably get over it within the next day or two and he'd become just a memory. A chill passed over him. _I think as if I really be dead_. Tia Dalma was humming that mysterious tune again.

----

The old man who owned the single-sail lugger had only one leg and the lugger looked like it hadn't been used in years. It only took one of Barbossa's rings to get the old man to hand over the boat. He hated letting the thing go; it'd been one of his favorites, a jade ring he'd lifted from another pirate who had tried to jump him as a kid. However, as the lugger was the only suitable vessel this side of the island, he had to give it up.

Chomping on the thing with his teeth the make sure it was real, the old man hobbled back into his little hut, also on stilts. Tia Dalma watched Barbossa as he hopped down into the lugger to check her sea worthiness. The woman wore an amused expression as she stood there. Barbossa intended to ignore her, still convinced she was crazy. But, it was hard to ignore a person like Tia Dalma. "Did ye not notice dat in yer ear?"

Barbossa looked up at her, puzzled at first before he remembered the strange earring. One hand floated up to tug on it slightly. "I had noticed. Any reason ye figured on taggin' me?" he asked sarcastically. Tia Dalma gave him another I-know-something-you-don't smile.

"It be a tiger claw from de Orient. It'll get ye back 'ere should ye e'er find yeself dead afore yer time."

"I'll be sure t'use it, then," came the not-serious reply. The mystic only laughed.

After fixing a hole in the sail and re-knotting some of the rope, Barbossa placed a booted foot against the old man's dock and shoved off. "Keep de settin' sun in ye left eye and Jamaica'll be at ye front wid'in a day or two." Barbossa sent her a short wave as he turned for an oar to maneuver out of the bayou. A loud thunk occurred suddenly in the stern and he turned around to find a leather bag had landed near the rudder. "Provisions fah ye journey!" came the mystic's voice. "I'll be keepin' track o' you, Hector Haywood! Don' forget ye owe me a t'anks!" The pirate looked up from the bag, a reply on the tip of his tongue. But, by the time he did look up, Tia Dalma was gone, as if she hadn't ever been there.

* * *

-…And Monkeys.-

_People. Every day, people. That's all he saw day in and day out. Sometimes they stopped by to buy something but most of the time they didn't. And every day he'd have to see that oily little man who kept the key to his cage. Vile, evil, little human. So, as one can imagine, when some atypical faces showed up at the stand one hot and strangely dry day, he decided to break free of his life of monotony. _

--

The market place in a small, one-horse port on the coast of Singapore was bustling with people. With the sun high in the sky and free of any clouds, it's light poured down on the little town as it had for the past couple days, sucking moisture from the surroundings. The air was heavy with dust kicked up by feet and the voices of street vendors shouting advertisements.

And for Barbossa, it was miserable. At every turn, he was finding something about the place he strongly disliked. When they first arrived, he caught some sort of vile cough. After recovering, he came to find out that the rum in Singapore was terrible (in his opinion at least). Yesterday he had a bad experience with some man's pet dog. For today, it was the heat. Accustomed as he was with Caribbean climate, one would think Barbossa would be used to such weather. But, he was more often aboard ship than he was on land and there was always a breeze. The crowded street was like walking through a stove.

For some reason, after setting foot in a rather seedy little port dubbed Port Royal, Barbossa found himself marooned in the place. The little lugger he'd traded for a ring had long since sank, the bottom having rotted out. Luckily not long afterwards, he found another crew to join for a few years. The captain was an average looking pirate named Rowdy Joe Pellew. He captained an average crew of more average pirates on an average ship titled the _Scourge_. At first, it didn't seem like such a bad little bunch. They successfully looted and sank a few merchant ships and raided a town on the Mexican coast. Gradually, Barbossa managed to afford a new vest, as his old one was falling to pieces. He'd come across a bright yellow and red sash while in the Mexican town. A merchant there had also been 'generous' enough to hand over a block of Incan silver so Barbossa wouldn't shoot him. This he melted down later for coat buttons. In all, things were fairly successful.

Then Pellew decided they should go to Singapore. He hadn't visited the place since his youth and he could "feel it callin' 'im like a long lost lover." Ever since, a cloud of bad luck hung over their heads. Barbossa was quickly coming to terms that Pellew's pirates weren't exactly the legend making type. It was largest crew of wanna-be's he'd ever seen.

It was a blessing that the motley crew had traveled to Singapore before. Barbossa had expected them to go across the Atlantic, around Africa and up towards Asia. But, he _hadn't_ expected Pellew to make a heading towards the southern tip of South America. It became long, difficult journey around the horn of the South Americas. They almost capsized several times. In the Pacific, they stopped at a seemingly uninhabited island for provisions only to be chased off by a pack of howling natives. When they finally reached Singapore, Barbossa told himself he'd find another way back to the Caribbean.

Today it was just Barbossa and two other crew members wandering the market. The rest of the crew had split off to go other places he didn't pay much attention to. A good number of the people walking the streets as well avoided them as much as possible, noting the weapons plain and clear at their belts. It was Franklin, the shortest man aboard the _Scourge_ who spotted the monkey next to a stand of fruit. "Look at this fellow," he said with a laugh, pointing a finger at the little brown primate. The animal sat in his wire cage, a little tether about his neck and seemed to glare at Franklin.

Almost instantly, the greasy little vendor behind the table was at Franklin's side. "A rare species of monkey imported all the way from the jungles of the Aztecs," the man stated grandly, gesturing at the monkey. "I'm taking best offers." Franklin peered at the monkey a moment, stroking the stubble on his chin. Barbossa and the other pirate, a man named Knight, sent each other amused looks. Of all the pirates, Franklin was the least frugal and most easily swayed to buy something. And to make matters worse, the monkey was looking at the pirate with large, pleading eyes.

"Why don't we just go t' South America and find one then?" Barbossa asked sarcastically. The vendor shot him a glare but Franklin ignored the comment.

"Is 'e friendly?"

"Of course!" came the reply. Barbossa and Knight were chuckling now. The vendor slid open the door to the cage and reached in for the tether. That was when things got a bit hectic. The monkey dived on the vendor's hand and bit him. The man jerked back with a howl, the monkey scampering up his arm and out of the cage. Franklin's mouth had formed an 'o' of surprise while behind him, Barbossa and Knight were rolling with laughter.

_Oh, finally getting a chance to bite the evil little vendor was highly satisfactory. Now for the next move. Perched on the vendor's head, he decided to make for the man with the funny hat, as he seemed to be the most interesting out of the three. _

"Oi, looks like he's taken wiv ye, Barbossa," Knight said, nodding at the monkey that had now jumped from the vendor to Barbossa's shoulder. The monkey sat there placidly as if he'd sat there for years. Barbossa laughed. The thing was an intriguing little beast. And curious. Barbossa felt a tug on his earring as the monkey examined it.

"Seems 'e has. Sorry, Franklin." He shrugged with his free shoulder, grinning at the little man as he reached up to take the tether off the monkey. Franklin pouted.

"But I wants the monkey…"

"'E don't want you apparently!" Knight declared with a chortle. He gestured and the three pirates headed off, but not before Barbossa snagged a shiny, green apple from the stand. He and Knight now began chatting absently about something else and Franklin lagged behind him, still pouting. The vendor, nursing his hand, called after them.

"That monkey ain't free!" he cried, waving a fist at them. "Don't make me…"

Both Barbossa and the monkey shot each other sideways looks, both knowing the same thing it seemed – the vendor wasn't going to do anything about it. One little vendor against three armed men. But, just in case the vendor was anything bold… All three pirates halted and turned around, each fixing the man with a look that practically withered the vendor where he stood. "Uh…go ahead! Take him!" he added hastily, diving back behind his fruit stand. This time Franklin joined them in a group cackle and they continued down the street.

--

Later that day, the crew congealed back at the _Scourge_ as she sat anchored by the docks. A good number of them sat around playing dice as the sun set, with the rest of the crew either watching or sleeping. Barbossa was sitting on a keg beside the main mast where the dice players were centered. Leaning up against the mast, he drowsed lightly, hat pulled down over his eyes and hands clasped over his chest. The monkey meanwhile was in the center of the group of pirates, watching the dice game intently.

_The entire day, neither he nor Barbossa were separated. Like a match made in heaven, it was. The pirate basically let him have free reign over himself. The man even shared a bag of dates with him. Maybe this time he'd stay with a master. Last time, he'd tried to escape the ownership of a large fat man. But when he decided to make an attempt at taking some peaches along with him, the man caught him. This was how he had ended up with the vendor. _

By now, the crew had grown accustomed to the monkey and treated him like a ship mate. However, Pellew hadn't seen him yet. And he wasn't a big fan of animals. "What in blue blazes is _that_?"

The entire group (excluding those sleeping) looked up at the captain's voice. Pellew stood over them pointing at the monkey. The animal stared up at the finger being pointed at him as if he'd been caught red handed or something. One manhazarded to speak after an uncomfortable pause.

"…It's a monkey, captain."

"I know what it is, ye oaf. What's it doin' 'ere? Who let it on?"

Immediately, the entire crew aimed fingers at the sleeping Barbossa. Pellew stormed over to the comatose pirate. He then promptly removed Barbossa's hat and hit over the head with it. Barbossa came awake with a start, nearly falling off the keg. "Barbossa, what makes ye think ye can bring mangy beasts aboard all willy-nilly? Eh?"

"No soul said I couldn't!" Barbossa replied, highly offended at being struck with his own hat.

"Well, ye can't! Now get it off ship!" Pellew turned around then and began heading for his cabin.

"No." This vocal disobedience suddenly halted the captain in his tracks. A breath of air was sucked in en masse as the crew gasped.

"What?" the captain queried, turning slowly on one heel. Barbossa was on his feet, cool haughtiness in his expression and one hand resting idly on the hilt of his sword. He'd had enough of this little crew, as boring as they were. If he was ever going to make the name of Hector Barbossa feared, he'd have to rise above these nobodies. Pellew marched up to him, much like the ill-fated Spanish pirate Barbossa got his pistol from. "Ye best mind yer place, mate."

"Or what?"

"Or ye'll find yeself over a cannon with a cat whippin' ye."

"I'd like to see the man what would try." The crewmen shot looks at each other. Having seen Barbossa in a raid, they wouldn't dare. As if reinforcing the claim, the monkey skittered over and clambered up onto his shoulder, baring its teeth at the captain. Pellew hissed at the little creature. Barbossa maneuvered around Pellew, using his elbow to push the man aside. Perplexed, the captain turned and watched him head for the gangplank.

"And just where d'ye think ye be goin'?"

"Ashore, ye nitwit," came the terse reply.

"_Are you desertin'_?"

"I don't rightly know," Barbossa said, pausing at the gangplank to turn and fix a sarcastically confused look at Pellew. "What does it look like?" And, with a sneer one his face and his new companion the monkey on his shoulder, Barbossa left the crew of the _Scourge_ for bigger and better things.

--

AN: After I wrote this, I was quite certain this was something I could see Barbossa doing. Now, I'm not really sure if I like it as much as I did. But, I'll leave the reviewing up to you readers. Expect some Jack Sparrow in the next chapter!


	5. Birds of a Feather

-Birds of a Feather-

Leaving the _Scourge_ turned out to be as ill-fated as sailing on it had been. Several months later, Barbossa found himself pleasantly drunk in a grimy little dive near the docks in that same little town. He downed a mouthful of _sake_ and settled down in his chair, welcoming the mind-numbing effects of the strong wine. Glaring at the empty cup before him, Barbossa sniffed lightly, cursing Joe Pellew under his breath for coming to Singapore in the first place. After the _Scourge _abandoned the waters of the bay and disappeared over the horizon, Barbossa decided to try and find a ship to captain. After failing miserably, he tried every pub possible for another crew to sail with. A good percentage of the time, he was tossed out on his duff. Several other times, he had to flee authorities. No, the pirating life was not treating him the way he wanted it to.

Walking down that gangplank, Barbossa swore, would be the very last rash thing he'd ever do. Ironic, looking at his present situation. He'd long since spent all his money. The only things left to his name were his personal effects. And the monkey. The little creature sat on the table in front of him, chewing on some sort of item Barbossa hadn't been paying attention to. He'd never gotten around to actually naming the monkey. His drink-clouded mind drifted back and forth from one thought to the next. One moment he was remembering the days aboard the _Kracken_ when Teller was alive and the next moment he was wondering why he wondered so much. Would he ever figure anything out?

He set about refilling his cup, laying hold of the _sake_ bottle to his left. A loud noise halted this, however. The dozen or so inhabitants of the pub, Barbossa included, turned their attentions towards the sound. It came from behind a door not five feet away from Barbossa's table. The pirate had to lean back a little and try to focus his unfocused eyes on the door. He hadn't noticed it before.

Presently, more noises came from behind it. It sounded like two people arguing. After some loud voicing, a thud and a yelp, the door flew open. The monkey screeched in surprise at the suddenness and leapt onto Barbossa's shoulder. A man in only his pants and tri-corn hat was pushed out of the room behind the door, coat and other effects gathered in his arms. "But it was just a corset, love!" he pleaded, turning back towards the door. He was struck in the face by his boots as a rather angry looking woman threw them and slammed the door shut afterwards.

The man grumbled to himself as he bent to pick up his boots. The wall of silence in the pub seemed to strike him suddenly and he froze, a dark eyed gaze casting around the room. This went on for a long moment until gradually, the rest of the pub turned back to what they were doing. The man sighed and began putting back on his shirt, boots, coat, sash, belt, sword, and pistol. After all this was done, he pulled off the hat and collapsed into a chair at Barbossa's table.

They sat there a long time, neither of them speaking but with Barbossa just staring at him. The other was a tan fellow with dark hair done in dread locks. He looked to be young. Well, a few years younger than Barbossa at least. And maybe a pirate. The man certainly had the look, if maybe a bit eccentric. It was quite odd, having now seen two outlandish people in his life, a first. And now both times, all he could do was stare. When the man finally looked up, he jumped slightly. "Oh…apologies." Then he noticed the forgotten _sake _bottle in Barbossa's hand and his rather melancholy expression immediately brightened. "May I?" Barbossa looked down at the bottle.

"I'ss'ppose," he slurred, passing the bottle across the table. The man took it eagerly, not even using a cup to drink it with. The monkey remained on Barbossa's shoulder, eyeing the man suspiciously. "Troubles wiv the women, mate?" he queried with a grin. He laughed when the man shot him something akin to a glare over the mouth of the bottle.

"Never," the other declared haughtily. "That one, she probably couldn't handle me."

"S'just why I don't bother wiv 'em."

"Really?" the man asked, casting an amused look at him. "I can certainly see why." The sarcasm, something Barbossa could usually easily pick out, was lost on him in that moment.

"O'course! It's 'cause- Wait…" Barbossa leaned over the table, lowering his voice. "Ye are a pirate, aren't ye?"

Casting a glance around the room, the man leaned in as well. "Aye," he replied. Barbossa nodded sagely.

"As I were sssayin'… It's 'cause we're pirates. I ain't much of a ladies man meself but those I been 'round genr'lly couldn't handle pirates." The man's expression brightened again.

"I've noticed that, too! D'you ever notice tha' they don't much like it if they see you wiv another woman?"

"Aye, I have. It's as if they have to have ye all to themselves."

The man wore an expression that said Finally-someone-who-understands! "Me thinks you n' I 'ave the potential to become good friends, mate," the man said, gesturing back and forth from himself to Barbossa. Trying to ignore the glares the monkey on Barbossa's shoulder was giving him, the man continued. "What's yor name?"

Barbossa stuck out his hand with as much coordination as he could. "Hector Barbossa. But I'll kill ye should ye call me Hector."

The man hesitated at this but seized his hand and shook it. "That'll about do it, I suppose. Name's Jack Sparrow." Here Sparrow grinned, a few golden teeth shining in the dim light of the pub. "_Captain_ Jack Sparrow."

--

Over the duration of the afternoon and most of the night, Jack Sparrow and Barbossa sat at that table, just drinking and talking. By the time Jack's first mate, a tall, strong looking fellow Barbossa would come to know as Bootstrap Bill Turner, came into the pub looking for his captain, both men were practically drunk off their chairs. They were laughing at something, probably an incoherent sentence that came across as funny. The monkey was perched near the edge of the table, watching the drunken pirates with an amused look. Bootstrap sighed and waited, not wanting to interrupt. It took Jack a few moments to notice his first mate standing there.

"Boosstrap, mate!" he declared. "Y'gotta meet thisss man 'ere Barbossa. E's an 'ell of a good egg, sssavvy?"

Bootstrap glanced at Barbossa, who now appeared to be on the verge of passing out. "I'm sure of it, cap'n." He stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on Jack's shoulder. "I believe we best get ye back to the Pearl, sir."

"Oh, aye!" Here Jack turned to Barbossa, poking him with his fingertips. "Ye gets t'see me sship." Now waving at Bootstrap. "E's comin wiv us." The pirate lurched to his feet and Bootstrap had to grab him before he made a face plant on the floor. "C'mon, Barbossa. The Pearl awaits!"

And indeed she waited, as it took nearly twice as long to maneuver Jack towards his own ship. Bootstrap found that Barbossa seemed to follow along at his own accord, though fully three sheets to the wind. Jack, however, was a mite different. The man wandered different directions as they headed down the street. A couple times the two pirates bumped into each other and would erupt into a fit of laughter. Bootstrap did his best not to laugh at them, failing several times. He thanked every god he knew when they reached the ship.

The rest of the crew had long since fallen asleep, tired of waiting for Bootstrap to return. The first mate was rather thankful for this. No sense in having the captain seen in such a disgrace. Jack he placed in his cabin and locked the door behind him. Barbossa he led below decks and angled into the closest hammock. Once both men were quite sound, Bootstrap wandered back above deck. There was something that was nagging at him and he was sure it was this Barbossa. The man seemed about his age, with perhaps a decade more or so of experience than Jack beneath his belt. Bootstrap fancied himself a bit of a good judge and, even while drunk, Barbossa had given off a rather unsavory aura. Untrustworthy, almost.

Bootstrap, sighing, sat down and propped himself up against the main mast, pulling his hat down a little. He'd just have to keep an eye on this Barbossa fellow and his monkey.

--

The next morning Barbossa awoke to an intense headache almost as soon as he opened his eyes. _So much for no rash decisions_…he thought to himself. Oh well. Live and learn. He sat up slowly, rubbing at his eyes. What had happened last night? This wasn't the pub… Most of the day was a blur in his memory. He didn't even remember leaving land. Barbossa peered out from between his fingers at his surroundings. Most likely below deck on a ship, as he came to find he sat in a hammock. About a half dozen more hung further along, the snores of the men sleeping in them audible in the rather empty 'tween decks. A sudden image of Jack Sparrow came to mind. Oh yes. The man had promised to take him into his crew. Funny how he remembered this but not how he'd actually met Sparrow. Inwardly, he was glad that he'd found another crew to sail with. Any more time spent in Singapore and he surely would have gone mad. He still hated the place with a passion. But there was maybe twenty other men there apart from Sparrow and that gangling Bootstrap. Must be just starting out.

A short chatter broke the pirate out of his reverie and he glanced down at the floor. The monkey was peering up at him. Barbossa's hat was in his little hands and the monkey handed it up to him. Smiling at the little creature, he reached down and retrieved his hat. He'd grown quite fond of the monkey over the past six months.

Casting a look at the now sun-kissed stairs leading upwards onto the main deck, Barbossa decided it was the moment of truth. Gingerly, he clambered out of the hammock and set his feet down on the wooden floor. One could tell a lot about a ship from how she rested. A little unsteady but that was probably just the aftermath of the night before. But the steadiness of the ship surprised him. Not even the _Kracken_ had felt this smooth. Growing curious as to how the rest of the _Black Pearl_ (if he remembered correctly) looked, he began heading up the stairs. The monkey clambered up his leg to perch on his shoulder.

They were still anchored at the docks. The sun light felt like it was burning his retinas as Barbossa stepped up on deck, squinting against the brightness. But the sight that greeted him afterwards more than made up for it. A low whistle escaped him. The _Pearl_ was absolutely stunning. Just from glancing up at rigging and around the deck, he could tell inwardly that this was either a brand new ship or one that was being kept in immaculate condition. Strange for a pirate to have such a clean ship but Barbossa pushed that out of his mind. The monkey dropped off his shoulder and made off towards the rigging with a mind to explore. Not even registering the sleeping man propped up against the main mast, Barbossa immediately made for the gangplank to have a look see at her from off board.

If Barbossa could ever love something, if he could ever truly find beauty in something, it would have to be in a sailing ship. The look from the docks was even more promising. He came to find out that it wasn't just the deck that had been scoured an impressive, matte black; the _Pearl_ was black entirely. And just by looking at her rest almost lithely on the waters of the bay, Barbossa could tell she was fast. Incredibly fast. He'd struck a jack pot, so to speak. After Jack garnered a bit more crew members, Barbossa was certain the _Pearl_ had incredible potential to become quite a piratical threat. This looked to be a ship that could out sail even the fastest of brigs.

He wandered back on board, still struck by the beauty of the ship. "Enjoyin' the view?" came a sudden voice. Barbossa turned, one hand instinctively on his pistol. The man he hadn't noticed against the main mast was awake now and was looking steadily at him with brown eyes. Barbossa relaxed only slightly as he remembered the man from last night.

"I was. Yer captain's got 'is hands on a beauty of a ship."

"Aye." The man ambled over to him, coming to a halt next to and glancing up towards the rigging where the monkey could be seen fluting about. Barbossa found he didn't much like that he'd have to look up at the man. "So yer Barbossa?" he asked, looking back down at him. Barbossa found he also didn't much like the disregarding look this fellow was giving him. This was probably due to last night. A lip-curl of a smile played with his features.

"Aye. And you are?"

"Bill Turner, Cap'n Sparrow's first mate. But mostly they call me Bootstrap." Bootstrap stuck his hand out in a friendly sort of manner. It may have been from the hangover but Barbossa could've sworn a flash of mistrust crossed Bootstrap's features. Reluctantly, Barbossa shook Bootstrap's hand. The first mate looked about ready to say something when the door to the cabin came open and out sauntered Jack Sparrow.

The captain seemed to be in somewhat better shape, though he moved with a sort of drunken walk. This didn't seem to bother Bootstrap any but to Barbossa, it came across as a bit odd. Sparrow looked even younger than he previously thought. Barely early twenties, perhaps, at least ten years younger than himself or Bootstrap. "Mornin', captain," Bootstrap greeted.

"Mornin', Bootstrap," Jack replied. "Ah! Barbossa! I was hopin' I'd find you 'ere."

"Well, here I be," came the reply.

"Right then. Welcome aboard the Black Pearl."

--

During the next few months, Barbossa took care to observe Jack Sparrow's captaining methods to see what kind of a crew he had gotten himself into on a drunken promise. The few men aboard were properly piratical, Bootstrap included. But, their captain was mad. Raving eccentric. Any sort of synonym Barbossa could find for peculiar. How couldn't he have noticed this when he met the man?

Sparrow was nothing like the captains he'd served under before. Where Teller had been strict, Jack would sometimes turn out lax. Things Teller had found superfluous, Jack found essential. The man Barbossa unconsciously based his image of a captain on was quite unlike the captain he currently worked for. Jack was young, too young to be a captain and be good at it. He had to have just celebrated making it past twenty-one. It was positively frustrating, more so than Barbossa would ever admit. He'd played bride's maid for eleven years on the _Kracken_ and ambition had him hoping Meyers would kick the bucket sometime soon. But of course, as it was with his luck, that storm had to wash him overboard. He wasn't influential enough as of then to come up with a ship of his own.

But now…Barbossa's more wicked nature began convincing himself that Jack was not captain material and that the _Black Pearl_ would be a much better tool in someone else's hands. Someone like him. Almost as soon as the notion of Captain Hector Barbossa crossed his mind, the pirate began hatching a plan. And a devious, down-right dishonest plan it was.

Barbossa began striving to get as trusted by Jack as the coveted Bootstrap Bill Turner. This worked. As Jack began to value his opinion as much as Bootstrap's, he managed to convince the captain to let him find more crew members. Again, this worked. In Tortuga and various other ports, he hand picked a crew he knew Jack would agree to. And, as a part of Barbossa's plan, they would also shoot first when he ordered and ask questions later. All the while Barbossa had to dodge Bootstrap. The first mate, unlike his captain, did not trust him at all.

His plan was nearing completion by the end of two years made up of careful, calculated movements. All he needed now was to break up the stalwart friendship between Jack Sparrow and Bootstrap. For about a week, he spent a good amount of his thinking time coming up with a way. One finally came one day as he ran a sharpening stone down the length of his sword. His mind wrapped around the underhanded idea and he soon had it all planned out. However, something was telling him to wait, to bide his time for an opportunity that was truly desirable. Then came Nassau Port.


	6. Bad Moon Rising

-Deception-

"Nassau port? Without a single shot?"

Jack nodded in reply to Barbossa's incredulous question, as if it was that simple. Even Bootstrap seemed a bit spooked about the plan. The two older pirates glanced at each other as they sat across the table from Jack in his cabin. "It isn't tha' difficult. I've been there before, mate."

Bootstrap leaned forward in his chair a little, expression slightly worried. "But that still leaves bein' able to actually get into the vaults without being noticed."

"I don't like it," Barbossa said, rather truthfully for once. His brow was furrowed heavily as he stared at Jack across the table. "It ain't right. It be a dishonest pirate what sneaks like a rat. A port should be knowin' it's bein' raided. This crew 'as mettle enough t' storm the place wide open and come out on top."

Even Bootstrap had to admit that this made sense. Like Barbossa, he was of the older generation of pirates where the only honorable sacking was one done with a bang. This wouldn't convince Jack however. He easily dismissed both their concerns and decided to go on with the plan.

--

The inky black sky above Nassau Port was dotted with stars, the new moon the tiniest of silver slivers among them. The mood of the port was sleepy, quiet, and peaceful. Not even the fireflies batted an eyelash when something entered the bay, slipping silently over the dark water. No lanterns were alight on the matte black ship, making for not only a silent approach, but for an unseen one as well.

The _Black Pearl_ slid to a silent stop next to the docks and soon dark figures were pouring over her sides, each with the same, unified mind to sack the place without firing a single shot. The wave of men, led by a dread-locked individual, made swiftly for a single building – the town bank. Getting there and getting in proved to be the easiest part of the mission. Now to break into the vault.

Hector Barbossa still didn't feel that the plan was entirely right. He and Bootstrap stood just out of sight about ten feet away from the bank as lookouts. The streets were silent, something contrary to Barbossa's beliefs. They should be filled with screaming people. This sneaking about in the dark wasn't the work of a real pirate; far too peaceful for his liking, it was. A pirate was supposed to create anarchy. And, being rather good at that, Barbossa felt like his and the crew's skills weren't being utilized properly. _Soon_, he figured. He'd start the finishing execution of his plan soon.

It took the lock pickers longer than planned to break into the vault but the crew was quick to begin transferring the bags of coin back to the _Pearl_. Barbossa wasn't at all at ease until the very last bag carried by the very last pirate scurried off into the dark back to the docks. He and Bootstrap turned to follow when a gasp halted both men in their tracks. Whirling around, they found a well-dressed man standing in the doorway of the bank, pointing after them in shock. On instinct, Barbossa instantly had his pistol out and cocked and was mere seconds from pulling the trigger when the man was struck from behind. The cold rush of adrenaline passed by in a flash, leaving Barbossa with the wind gone from his sails. The banker dropped like a rock to reveal Jack Sparrow standing behind him, expertly twirling a silver candlestick between his fingers. He shot his crew members a grin and they headed off into the night, bound for the ocean.

The next morning, the banker would reclaim his senses. He would look around in wonderment, wondering (of course) if last night had been a dream. He'd stagger to his feet and turn around to find the vault wide open and empty. Trying not to think that his superiors would hang him for not stopping the thieves, he would discover a bit of paper on the floor. And, written in a pirate's hand, the paper would read: "To whom it may concern…you will wake up in the morning and wonder who took all your gold. Well, this will be the day you shall always remember as the day that you were sacked by Captain Jack Sparrow and the crew of the _Black Pearl_. Sincerely, Capt. Jack Sparrow."

News of this silent sacking spread like a wildfire through the surrounding area. The Nassau officials, trying to save themselves from a humiliating report, produced the story personally in the papers. An eye witness, also in an effort to save himself, was written into the article saying that a group of pirates, armed to the teeth and howling like demons, overtook him in the bank, beat him senseless, broke into the vault, and ran off with all the money. But by the time the Gazette got this story out, the legend of Jack Sparrow's sacking of Nassau Port without firing a single shot was already being told several islands over. The report only went along to further blow the rather hushed, rather un-miraculous accomplishment out of proportion. None of the pirates complained.

--

_One day later…_

The sun was just making its nightly descent, turning the sky brilliant shades of crimson and gold. The dazzling orb's reflection was marred only by the small amount of chop on the water. Off in the distance, the nearly full moon was like a round, silver, wraith on the horizon. A warm, sleepy feeling had settled over the water. While the sunset over the Caribbean was peaceful, the atmosphere aboard the _Black Pearl_ was far from it

Hours earlier, when Bootstrap went down at the usual time, he discovered that a bag of it was missing. Periodically and on orders from Captain Sparrow, he would go down to the holds to make sure the pay load from Nassau was still in the proper amount. In spite of his somewhat trusting nature, Jack Sparrow wasn't about to be as naïve to assume that any crew member wouldn't go looking at it. Immediately upon discovering that some of it had gone missing, he scurried back on deck to alert Jack and ever since, the hold had been put on lock down. It wasn't surprising to the rest of the crew that it was Bootstrap who got to guard it. Just what Barbossa was hoping would happen.

After the announcement the crew went back to their various doings such as swabbing the deck, tightening some sort of rope, or just the general lazing about that they usually did once the ship was ship-shape and ready for the night. Six men – Barbossa, a large Jamaican with raised tattoos named Isaak, a lean, one-eyed fellow who answered to Ragetti, his squat counterpart Pintel, Twigg, and Koehler – were situated near the ship's railing playing a game of dice.

At the sporadic thunk of Jack Sparrow ambling across the deck, the group glanced up to watch the captain come down from the quarter deck and go into his cabin just as he did every day. Ragetti slipped one of the dice into his pocket. Their eyes were on the door all the way until it shut with a small thud. Almost immediately, they were away from their dice and making silently for below deck. And the man at the wheel and those ambling around didn't even bat an eye.

Barbossa was at the head, moving stealthily down the stairs. He paused at the transition platform between the crew's sleeping quarters and the holds. One hand gestured in the direction of the cargo hole not too far away from the stairs. A dim light from Bootstrap's lantern cast a glow around the edges. Pintel and Ragetti saluted and scurried over. No words were needed. They'd gone over this part of the plan many times. The comical pair would watch from above while Barbossa and Isaak went down to handle Bootstrap. With the large Jamaican and other two following in his wake, Barbossa continued down. The typical dark of the below deck soon surrounded them. Ducking behind a stack of kegs, they could faintly hear someone whistling. Up ahead and positioned in front of the entrance to one of the cargo holds was Bootstrap Bill, whittling on a piece of wood and whistling a jig.

With a nod from Barbossa, Twigg and Koehler crept clandestinely closer and out of sight. Barbossa had kept a cool, level head the entire time. He was impossibly confident, bordering on cocky, that this was going to work. No fear clouded his judgment. He wasn't even feeling any qualms that he was about to pass the point of no return with his idea of mutiny. Isaak glanced at him. _Now_? Barbossa nodded. _Now_.

The large man reached up and pushed one of the kegs to the floor while, simultaneously, Barbossa scooted out from behind their cover. The loud clatter and thud of the keg striking the floor nearly shot Bootstrap out of his chair. "Who goes there?" the man queried, seizing his lantern and throwing the beam out in front of him. Barbossa squinted against the beam.

"Bootstrap, it's me! Barbossa."

"Barbossa? What are you doin' here?"

"I was just comin' down t' see if ye'd had any luck with catchin' that thief," Barbossa replied, brushing himself off. "Guess I walked straight into that." He jabbed the fallen keg with a toe. Bootstrap allowed himself a brief sigh.

"Should've brought a light, mate," he said, getting up from his seat and walking over to where Barbossa stood. "Let me help with that."

"Aye." As they bent to grab the keg, Barbossa glanced past Bootstrap. Twigg and Koehler were swiftly and silently picking away the lock on the hold door. A flash of his blue eyes and he spotted Isaak in the darkness, something in his hand. Barbossa coughed as he and Bootstrap lifted it back up to its stack. The blow that came in response to the signal was something Bootstrap never saw coming. With a thwack, a piece of planking met the side of the first mate's head and he was knocked to the ground. Meanwhile, Barbossa dived upon the lantern and put it out with his fingers. Darkness completely surrounded them. Trying to shake off the burning oil on his digits, Barbossa just barely caught a glimpse of Twigg and Koehler making off with a bag of the Nassau loot.

Bootstrap and Isaak were struggling over the plank. Barbossa fumbled about for a second before his hand closed upon Bootstrap's long coat. In the general mayhem, someone landed an elbow in Barbossa's face, splitting his lip and clipping the end of his nose. Shaking the stars from his vision, he seized the clothed arm before him. Isaak followed suit. What little light that was coming from above gave Barbossa and Isaak just enough vision to see where the hold door was. Fighting to keep Bootstrap under control and quiet, they drug him towards the room and with a great heave, tossed him in and shut the door. "Pentil, Ragetti, fetch the captain! We got ourselves a thief!" Barbossa cried too gleefully as he and Isaak held the door shut against a barrage of kicks and punches on the other side.

"Aye, sir!" came two voices and the sound of feet scurrying soon followed it.

"You tink dhis is really gonna work, Barbossa?" Isaak queried, glancing at the smaller man.

"Oh, it'll work. I'll make it work."

They held up the door for maybe forty seconds when a light came bobbing down the stairs and an ensemble made up of Captain Sparrow, Pentil, and Ragetti burst in. "What's goin' 'ere!" Jack cried, holding up his lantern. Barbossa and Isaak turned around. The man actually looked sincere and perturbed for once. After all, there was nothing worse than a pirate that stole from his own shipmates. "Barbossa, I 'ad these two come into me cabin n' say they seen you n' Isaak here apprehend our lil' night scavenger. What say you t' that?"

"Well, sir," Barbossa began, the door bouncing against his back. "We dropped one o' our playin' dice down 'ere. Seein' as 'ow two pairs of eyes were better then one, we both came down t' see if it'd fallen here."

Isaak picked up from here. "We came down n' found someone rootin' in de hold."

"And? Where was Bootstrap durin' all this?" Jack asked, now noticing his first mate wasn't anywhere to be found. The barrage from behind the door finally succeeded in throwing off Barbossa and Isaak and Bootstrap Bill stumbled out, greeted by three sets of gasps from Jack, Pentil, and Ragetti.

"He was inside!" Barbossa declared, pointing a long-nailed finger at Bootstrap.

"Bootstrap?" Jack's disbelieving but shocked look said more than he did. The first mate, breathing heavily, glanced from man to man with a wild expression.

"N-no, sir! These two," he gestured towards Isaak and Barbossa. "Barbossa came down, tricked me over to those kegs and then the big fellow jumped me!"

"That's a lie!" Barbossa retorted. "We got witnesses!" From behind Jack, Pentil and Ragetti waved.

"You probably bribed 'em!"

"Enough!" They all went silent as Jack's order echoed through the hold. "Now, ye both will shut it so we can figure this out like men, not animals!"

"Hey!" Five sets of eyes turned towards Ragetti to watch him dive on the floor. "I found the dice!" he cried happily, coming up from the floor with the little spotted cube in his hand. His grin faded though as the group look dampened whatever glee happened to be there. Jack broke the silence with an order.

"All of you, up on deck. Now."

With that, the captain turned on one heel and headed back up the stairs. Bootstrap, aiming a mistrustful glare at the other assembled pirates, cut through them and followed. As he passed, Barbossa smirked through a bloody lip as he too followed suit. Isaak and the other two chuckled and were soon after him. It wouldn't be long now.

Jack's voice became gradually louder as they came up the stairs into a warm, Caribbean night. "-found our thief." He paused, glancing over his shoulder as the others came up onto the deck. A crew member had asked what was going on. The rest of the crew was listening on, curious. Expressions of partly planned surprise became quite common among them as they set eyes on the man Jack looked to. Such a phrase had been heard from one: "Bootstrap Bill? But he's first mate. He wouldn't steal from his own captain….would he?" Jack's own expression was part disbelief, part worry as he watched his first mate come to stand beside him.

"I'm not sure as of yet whether or not Bootstrap is guilty," he said. He would have moved on to say something about the evidence but Barbossa interrupted.

"He is! Ye'd be surprised how much a bit o' gold can motivate a man," the pirate declared, cutting in between Jack and Bootstrap. "There's evidence that says he's guilty." One long-nailed finger pointed in the direction of Pentil and Ragetti. "Was it not them who came t' ye n' told ye what went on?"

"They did but –"

"Then what's stoppin' ye from doin' somethin' about it?"

"The word of those aren't exactly what I'd call trustworthy, that's what!" Jack retorted offhand. Pentil and Ragetti looked hurt. A general murmur passed through the crew. Who do they believe? Barbossa went to speak again when half of the pair that was Twigg and Koehler spoke up.

"Check 'is kip," the ebon-skinned pirate suggested. "There ain't many other places t' 'ide tings 'ere."

With nothing else to go on as far as evidence, the crew voiced an aye en masse. "Why? There isn't anything there. I sleep right next to you," Bootstrap said.

"Tryin' to hide his crime, says I," Barbossa muttered just loud enough for those within ear shot to hear. He didn't try to keep his sneering glare a secret. Meanwhile, Jack looked extremely uncomfortable.

"We'll go check it and prove that he's as innocent as I am," he said loudly over the stronger rumble of discontent that passed through the crew. "The rest of you stay here while Bootstrap, Barbossa and I go below." Shooting an unsure look at his first mate, he turned again and headed back down to the gun deck where the hammocks were arranged. Barbossa was hot on his heels, Bootstrap keeping up a furious stride next to him. The light of the lantern cast strange shadows as they moved through the mass of hanging cloth to the one designated to Bootstrap.

Even as they approached, Barbossa could tell that Twigg and Koehler had done their job well. The hammock hung low, as if a cannon ball was sitting in it. Jack stepped forward and pulled the edge of the rough cloth back, hovering the lantern before it. Bootstrap and Barbossa looked over his shoulders. "Ha!" Barbossa cried as both Jack and Bootstrap's expressions melted into ones of surprise. He reached in and pulled out a laden sack of legal British tender, the coins in the sack jingling against each other. "Thought you'd get away with it, eh?" he jeered. Bootstrap spluttered, speechless. Barbossa waved the bag before Jack. "Told you 'e did it."

Lips pursed into a thin line, Jack turned away from the hammock without a word and made for the stairs. Barbossa followed and Bootstrap behind him. The expectant eyes of the entire crew were on them as they reappeared. Barbossa maneuvered around Jack and cast the closed bag onto the deck, the tie coming undone a little and some coins skittering out onto the dark wood. There were intakes of breath from the crowd assembled.

The look on Barbossa's face was fierce as he gestured with a pointed finger at Bootstrap, who was just coming up the stairs. "If that man goes unpunished because he's yer best mate..." He let his voice fade off as he lifted one hand to wipe at his busted lip. Behind him, the crew grumbled in agreement. They hadn't failed to notice that Jack seemed to favor Bootstrap at times.

"Barbossa, that's unnecessary. We can come t' some sort o' conclusion," Jack said, conflicting emotions raging clearly in his expression. On the outside the situation wasn't the best to be in but Barbossa was glad to find it going right along with what he planned. Jack and Bootstrap were playing right into his hands. While Bootstrap was a good and reliable first mate, he was unspectacular overall. Even now, the man's features were puzzled as he tried to figure out how this had gone south. Meanwhile, Jack, being the rather beginning captain he was, now was finding himself on the spot and under the pressure of the crew. Some of the men argued that evidence never lied and it all pointed to Bootstrap. Others wanted to believe Bootstrap and said he was innocent. A large majority, however, agreed with Barbossa. And nearly every statement was being thrown at Jack, poking and prodding him repeatedly to make a decision. Bootstrap was behind him, insisting upon his innocence. In all, it was quickly turning into a right mess on the deck of the _Pearl_.

It was a flustered and harried Jack that shouted for quiet. The arguing settled down as they focused back on the captain. His brow furrowed and head shaking slowly, Jack turned to Bootstrap. "Bootstrap…I can't deny what's been shown."

"B-but-"

"I'm sorry, mate. T'all points t' you."

"Jack, I'm tellin' you. I didn't do it!"

"Best give up denyin', Boostrap," Barbossa said. "The cap'n's made 'is decision." He looked pointedly at Jack. "All that's left is t' choose how to execute justice."

Immediately, suggestions poured from the crew. "Keel haul 'im!"

"Watch and watch!"

"Get out th' cat-o-nine!"

"No rum!"

"De-mate him!" This last suggestion received an instantaneous consent in the form of a large, loud, uniform "aye!" Both Bootstrap and Barbossa looked at Jack, one wildly and the other with a shrug.

"Captain…."

"Ye'd do it t' any of us," Barbossa put in with a reasoning tone. Jack didn't look up to meet either of their gazes. The crew was silent, waiting on baited breath for the order that was sure to come. Barbossa was trying to quell the excitement rising within him. After a long moment, Jack looked up and over the crew. His expression was uncharacteristically hard.

"Bootstrap, I'm removing you from your position." Bootstrap was agape, thrown for a loop. "Barbossa…" Barbossa felt his heat flutter into his throat. This was it; the moment of truth. The entire removal of Jack Sparrow as captain depended on this one moment. "You're first mate."

Trying to keep the smirk off his face, Barbossa bowed with a flourish. "Thank 'ee, cap'n. I'll certainly do a better job than him."

"One can only hope," Jack said tightly. Ignoring Bootstrap, he turned on one heel and bee lined for his cabin. With all the excitement for the night done, the crew disassembled and made for below deck, those on watch moving to their positions. One man bent to recover the bag of coins and take them back to the hold. They parted around Barbossa and Bootstrap like a wave. There was a slap on his back and Barbossa glanced up to find Twigg and Koehler moving by.

When the crowd had passed, Barbossa found himself unconsciously standing taller. He'd risen up in the world again and this time, it had been by his own doing. He logged this away as one of his greatest accomplishments so far. The other pieces on the board had been cleared off and nothing stood in his way. Sweet success. He removed from his pocket one of the Nassau coins, one out of the first bag that had gone "missing." Smirking, he flipped the coin into the air once and then returned it to his pocket.

The only man left on deck apart from Barbossa was Bootstrap. He had wandered away in a stupor and was now leaning despondently against the ship railing and staring down at the black water as if he wanted to throw himself in. Yes, everything was going according to plan. The former first mate looked incredibly downcast. His close friend had just demoted him and replaced him with another man they had barely known for two years. To everyone else, Bootstrap looked to be just an unhappy man. To Barbossa however, he was a potential mutineer just like every other hand picked pirate aboard. A man unhappy was a man easy to manipulate. As a plus, Bootstrap hadn't proved himself to be that bright either. Barbossa had to keep himself from chuckling as he walked across the deck to the former first mate.

"Bootstrap." The man looked up at the mention of his name but immediately looked away when he saw who it was. Barbossa leaned up against the railing beside him, pulling an apologetic face. Surprisingly Bootstrap, in spite of expressing his dislike of the situation on his face, didn't budge. "Apologies, mate. I wouldn't 'ave known Jack would pick me t' replace ye."

Bootstrap shot him a glare. "You framed me," was all he said. It didn't seem like the man was unaware of what happened. Barbossa winced slightly, punching Bootstrap casually on the shoulder.

"Weren't anythin' personal mate. You were just in the way." Bootstrap shot him a perplexed look and they both lapsed into silence, Bootstrap away to look across the darkening horizon and Barbossa watching him.

"Why'd you join this crew?" the new first mate asked suddenly.

"Cap'n Jack asked it of me. 'Sides, I'd been growin' weary of living a legitimate life."

"Ye sure ye didn't join just to…keep an eye on Jack? Make sure he didn't get 'ead over heels in some unmanageable situation? Like Nassau?"

The look that Bootstrap shot him immediately gave away the answer, though his reply said otherwise. "I don't know what yer talkin' about." Barbossa chuckled, smirking nastily. He had him.

"Don't be playin' the fool with me, Bill Turner. I ain't one t' suffer fools." Bootstrap refused to acknowledge him and began walking towards the stairs to below deck. But Barbossa was hot on his heels. "Ye know exactly what I'm talkin' about."

The larger man came to a sudden halt and about-face, now looming over Barbossa. "I know what yer tryin' to do, Barbossa. I gave an oath and I'm gonna hold true to it. I'm not about to let you turn me against the captain with your cock-a-mammy tales."

"I ain't tryin' t' lie. I'm tryin' to get ye to see the truth," Barbossa replied sharply, not afraid of the close proximity. He shot a quick glance to the light in Jack's cabin. "You n' I both know that Jack ain't fit to be captain o' the Pearl. He's too green, too soft. Why, he's barely fit to be a pirate! Ye have to see this. It's been bitin' ye on the nose fer the past two years, maybe longer!"

Bootstrap seemed to shrink a little as doubt clouded his features. Barbossa continued. "What happens when a backwards plan like Nassau goes sour? He's gonna cost us crew members, that's what! How long 'afore he goes too far n' we all go down on account o' his ignorance?" A charged silence hung between them as Bootstrap's brown eyes bored into Barbossa's blue ones. The former first mate would lose this battle of wills. Gradually, the hardness fell out of Bootstrap's expression and a look of defeated acceptance replaced it.

"So what are you suggesting?" That single question was like music to Barbossa's ears. It meant that his assumption in that Bootstrap never really believed in his captain's abilities had been correct. It also meant that Bootstrap had given up on Jack. _All too easy_.

"We'll wait a while yet, for an opportune moment," Barbossa replied, looking again towards Jack's cabin. "A man like Jack's bound to 'ave some sort o' grand adventure planned for the future."

"Aye." Bootstrap followed his gaze. "Not sure if it means anythin' but…He has been fixated on a piece of paper of late."

"Has he now?"

"I never got a clear look at it. He would always put it away whenever I came in."

Barbossa nodded, mostly to himself. "Ah, I'll 'ave it out o' him afore long." He began making again for the stairs.

"Barbossa." The new first mate stopped and turned to look at Bootstrap. "If ye don't mind me askin'…how long have you been plannin' this?"

An unpleasant smile curled his lips. "Longer than you have, mate."

Below, the rest of the crew was waiting restlessly for Barbossa to appear. It was at this time that Barbossa would be making a certain proposition to them. As a large percentage of them had been recommended to the _Black Pearl _by him, they already had an idea what kind of proposition he spoke of. They emitted a few groans of 'finally' as Barbossa did finally appear coming down the stairs below with Bootstrap Bill behind him. "Can we trust that one?" a capped fellow they called Twigg queried, nodding towards the former first mate. "E ain't 'zactly wot I'd call trustworthy."

"He's with us, Mr. Twigg," Barbossa replied, now all business.

"So wot's in yer 'ead, Barbossa?" another individual named Pintel asked. "We 'ope it 'as some sort o' profit in it."

Barbossa smiled his unpleasant smile again. "Let me do a bit o' talkin' first. Gents, after some evidence was revealed to our captain…" Various pirates smirked at this, those that had just assisted in framing Bootstrap. But the former first mate wouldn't know it. "You all saw me made into first mate." A general nod rippled through the crew. "We all know why. Now…" Barbossa hooked his thumbs on his belt and meandered through the crew. "We're also all awares of 'ow Jack Sparrow ain't quite the leadin' material we're all used to." There was another general acquiesce. "So one can imagine the quandary 'afore a body when I say tha' Jack Sparrow needs to be removed." He let a dramatic pause linger in the air. "Permanently."

"Hold on just a bloomin' jiffy." Barbossa came to a halt and fixed a look on the crew member who spoke. He couldn't remember the man's name. Jameson was it? "You ain't tryin' to spite a mutiny, are ye? That ain't right wiv de Code!" In response, Barbossa pulled a rather sickly sweet smile and walked up to face the pirate.

"'O course I ain't tryin' to spite a mutiny," he said. The audible click of a hammer being pulled back was heard. Any trace of a smile vanished suddenly from Barbossa's features as he dug the muzzle of his pistol into the man's gut. To a few 'sensitive' pirates, it felt as if the room's temperature had dropped a few degrees. "I'm _committing_ one." The man's face drained of color as he couldn't pull his eyes away from Barbossa's icy gaze. "Aye, I'm goin' to pull that shammin' fool of a pirate down from 'is high horse." Here, he pulled back his weapon and turned to the rest of them. "And you lot are gonna plan on 'elpin'."

The men seemed to talk amongst themselves for a moment. They knew well enough that Barbossa wasn't telling tales; he was fully capable of taking out Jack Sparrow. They all recognized that, in truth, he felt no brotherly love towards the eccentric pirate in spite of the outward camaraderie between them. And, like Barbossa, they were feeling a bit under utilized, a bit stir-crazy if you will, at not doing a true bit of honest pirate's work in Nassau. After looking at all this, it was Twigg who voiced the question that was on all their minds. "Wot sort o' profit is there fer us?"

"I'm glad ye asked, Mr. Twigg." Back to his orator form, Barbossa let down the hammer on his pistol and returned it to its place on his belt. "It seems that Jack has a little secret. We have from a reliable source that this secret per'aps involves profit. Bootstrap." Barbossa gestured for the former first mate to come over. Almost reluctantly it seemed, the tall man complied.

"The captain's been carrying around bit of paper. What few glimpses I got of it had what looked like coordinates. And some writing down at the bottom said something about treasure."

Immediately, the crew's eyes lit up at the thought of real treasure. Even the loyal few. The paltry lot from Nassau could barely be called swag, even though they cleaned out the entire bank. There was barely enough for each man to carry a few pounds. But this, this was much more promising. "I'll get this information from our good _captain_ and we can plan on havin' ourselves a bit o' gold to pick up," Barbossa said. The greedy thoughts behind both his eyes and the crew's eyes were clearly palpable. "Gents, our time is nigh."

--

AN: First off, I must apologize for my lack of AN last chapter. Long story. Anyway, yes, the tiger claw earring reason-thing was of my own design. As always, I enjoy getting such positive reviews from you readers. You have no idea how ecstatic I was to see that the review number went from 15 to 24 within one chapter. Thank you, Dara Natalia! The Nassau spelling error has been fixed in this chapter and for that, I thank Jeopardy. And if parts in this chapter seem a bit out of place, I had to re-write some things to make them fit and they didn't fit as well as they had.

Next chapter – Whee! Rebellion!


	7. Mutiny

-It's Curtains for Jack Sparrow-

A bottle of rum stared up at him as if asking for Jack Sparrow to pull it out for a drink. The captain, holding a lantern aloft so he could see in the dark underbelly of the _Black Pearl_, smiled satisfactorily to himself as he bent to retrieve the bottle from the shelf. Setting the lantern down on the shelf, Jack yanked the cork from the bottle to sample the wares inside.

Three days ago and with replenished crew, they had sailed from Tortuga bound for the island "that couldn't be found, except by those who knew where it was." The mysterious tales surrounding it called it the Isle de Muerta, the island of dead. And on this island was a treasure of legendary proportions – a large chest of Aztec gold said to be handled by Cortés himself. Jack had pulled the almost forgotten piece of paper upon which he'd scribbled down the secret coordinates, the Isle de Muerta's bearings, about a month or two ago. After having the numbers burn a hole in his pocket so to speak, Jack finally decided to throw it out as their next journey.

As if the man was psychic, Jack's new first mate Barbossa had anticipated the announcement as they sat talking in the captain's cabin. Jack felt qualms every time he looked at the man, reminded of how he had to demote his former first mate, Bootstrap Turner. But, what is done is done. After Jack told Barbossa of the treasure, he whole-heartedly agreed with setting out to find it. He even suggested Tortuga be the place to stop and gather up more men. After all, who knew how much treasure there was? What if the journey claimed a few lives? And so, Jack went before the crew with Barbossa on his right to propose the idea. There was an immediate consensus. They didn't seem to mind that the treasure lay on a cursed island. No one believed in ghost stories anymore. In Tortuga, they rounded up a few extra men and here they were, three days out on the ultimate venture. Things couldn't be going more smoothly.

Oh, how little Jack Sparrow knew.

Quite content now with the bottle of rum in his hand, Jack retrieved his lantern and meandered out of the store room. With the lantern hanging from his wrist, Jack paused just outside of the room to shut the door and lock it. He was just doing this when he felt a presence behind him. The lock sealed with a _clank_ as Jack turned to find two crew members, Twigg and Koehler, standing before him. From the almost condescending glares the two were giving him, Jack knew something wasn't right. "Can I 'elp you gentlemen?" he queried.

Instead of getting an answer, the two men glanced at each other before stepping forward. Jack now found himself between Twigg and Koehler, each pirate gripping him firmly by each shoulder. "What is this?" Jack commanded, somewhat alarmed by this odd behavior.

"The captain'll be seein' yiz now," Twigg said as they reached the stairs up to the upper deck.

"But I'm captain."

"Not no more," Koehler added.

"What?" By this time, they'd reached upper deck. Up above them, the Caribbean stars twinkled complacently, as if nothing was happening. A full moon was out in plain view and made things easy to see. The two pirates turned Jack around. The entire crew was out in force on the deck, most of them on the main deck and a few on the quarter deck. Twigg spoke and Jack got to see who this other 'captain' was.

"Cap'n Barbossa, we brought 'im."

--

It was interesting to see the utterly stupefied look on Jack Sparrow's face. There wasn't anything too upset about it; Jack just seemed a bit unpleasantly surprised to find that his first mate, a man he thought he could trust, was the man who led this rebellion. Barbossa couldn't keep from smirking as he watched the puzzlement disappear into recognition into a mixture of denial and anger. All at once, Jack's tongue came back to him. "Barbossa!" he shouted.

He got an answering cackle from the man as he came down the stairs from the quarter deck. "Aye, Jack. That's my name. Good t' see ye know it."

"Barbossa, what's going on 'ere?" Jack demanded, fighting against the restraining hands as his mutinous first mate sauntered up.

"T'ain't obvious enough fer ye?" Barbossa asked. Jack glared at him in response. "Here before ye stands a mutiny." If anything, those were probably the worst words Jack could have heard at that time. The color drained from his tan face.

"But…I trusted…" Jack was slightly tongue-tied as he looked down at his boots. When he looked back up, his question came through clenched teeth. "Why?"

"Well, we decided that we didn't want ye 'round as captain any more." Around them, the crew snickered at the simplicity of the statement. "Yer too green, Jack. Naïve, peaceful, and green. Some of these bucs, they don't much like bein' ordered around by a lad younger than 'em." Here, Barbossa gave an amused snort. "And ye certainly ain't pirate enough to be captain' of a ship like the Pearl, what with bein' worried about yer upstandin' reputation and fair treatment." Barbossa waved Twigg and Koehler back. Almost reluctantly they released Jack and moved back a step. Barbossa came to stand beside him, throwing an arm around his shoulders. He smiled a smile like that of an adult explaining something to a child. "Don't tell me ye couldn't see somethin' like this happenin'."

"I…suppose I could," Jack replied, shrugging under the weight of Barbossa's arm. With his tongue functioning now, he seemed to have recovered a little bit of his confidence. "'Specially wiv someone like you."

"Oh?"

"Aye. Tried lookin' past it but, mate…it seems like you truly are the back stabbin' type." Barbossa laughed.

"Ye ain't foolin' me with that, Jack," he replied, patting the man on the shoulder. Jack's dark gaze flickered up at him in a glare.

"A pity." He looked away, past the main body of the crew. "But…I can't say I expected someone like 'im t' be willing t' go along wiv ye."

The crew and Barbossa followed Jack's gaze to find the younger man looking steadily at Bootstrap Bill. In spite of the scrutiny, Bootstrap didn't look up to meet any of their eyes. Barbossa hadn't forgotten about the former first mate. The big man's reaction had been something of interest to him. And now, as Bootstrap didn't seem liable to try and stop the mutiny from finishing, Barbossa no longer felt him to be a problem. "Ye'd be surprised, _mate_," Barbossa stated. With a short laugh, he removed his arm from Jack's shoulders and shoved him roughly into the waiting hands of the crew. "Brig!"

As several pirates pushed Jack towards a waiting cell, Barbossa breathed deep the cool, night air with a sense of accomplishment. With an excited chatter, the monkey dropped down from the rigging onto his shoulder. Not even bothering to try and keep the smirk from his face, Barbossa headed back up onto the quarter deck. The man at the wheel looked up at his step. "Do we 'ave a 'eading, cap'n?"

Barbossa held out a hand and the monkey placed a folded up bit of parchment in his weathered palm. Unfolding the paper, Jack's slanting handwriting stared up at him in the form of a pair of two numbers – the longitude and latitude of the Isle de Muerta. Earlier that day, he had managed to get Jack to give up the bearings, stating that if the treasure was in equal share then that should mean the location as well. Just then, as Jack went below for his nightly allotment of rum, Barbossa entered his cabin to see if they were headed in the right direction. If there was one thing he could say about Jack Sparrow, it was this – the man was a devil of a navigator.

"Stay on course," Barbossa replied, turning to look out past the bow of the _Black Pearl_. Up ahead, treasure laid waiting for them. He would have smiled nastily in anticipation but, at that moment, he became aware of a dull pain in his shoulder. This was same shoulder that the wave had tried to use to dig a furrow in the deck of the _Kracken_. Every so often, like whenever a bad storm would be on the rise, the old injury would start to hurt. Fueled by the success of the mutiny, Barbossa was strongly unwilling to allow this to sway him from his path. The night sky was almost as clear as day and no scent on the wind gave away any hint of a storm. But, in the back of his mind, Barbossa couldn't help but wonder if it was some kind of omen.

--

The next morning was as clear and bright as the night before it. The sun shone high amidst various, puffy white clouds. And, about four chain lengths off lay a small, skinny spit of land barely a mile in length. The expression on Jack Sparrow's face meant that the man didn't enjoy the sight.

He stood despondently at the edge of the deck, looking out across the plank before him. The reality of the situation seemed to have hit him. Jack barely moved at all, his usually animated hands still and quiet in their rope bindings. He didn't even blink when Hector Barbossa came up to stand beside him. "Lovely day fer a marooning, eh lads?" he queried aloud, elbowing Jack as he glanced over his shoulder at the assembly behind him. A general reply of 'ayes' came at him. A large number of the crew had their swords out. This was mostly for show, as Jack obviously wasn't about to pull some sort of trick on them.

Barbossa looked down at the former captain. The man was staring steadfastly at the spit. The little spit stood out to Barbossa only because it happened to be the last rum cache Teller had ever stopped at. Luckily, it also just happened to be on the way. The rum running business was quickly finding the Navy's choke hold around its neck and Barbossa doubted the spit had been visited in the past few years. "It's been nice sailin' with ye, Jack," he said, glancing at Isaak and gesturing.

"Aye…" A loaded pistol was placed into Barbossa's outstretched hand.

"And, as customary, here be yer last shot." He tucked it into a pocket on Jack's overcoat. "Don't be usin' it all in one place now." Jack looked up at him suddenly. An uncharacteristically dark look had seized him.

"I'll be savin' it fer one purpose. To kill you." Barbossa laughed at this.

"We'll see, Jack. We'll see." And, without warning, he shoved Jack forwards and over the end of the plank. Barbossa paused only to hear the splash below. Laughing, the crew along with him, he headed for the quarter deck. "Hoist sails, prepare for launch! We 'ave some gold t' find!"

--

-The Isle de Muerta-

It is a strange thing, that thick, heavy feeling of a thunderstorm about to break. All through the rest of the voyage, this feeling plagued Barbossa not matter how hard he tried not to think of it. It also disturbed him that he couldn't come up with a feasible reason for said feeling. While he usually listened to those 'impending doom' feelings he got, the call of gold, like the willing hand of a sly, voluptuous temptress, was too strong to turn away. And he couldn't deny the rush of excitement whenever he looked down at the solid, black deck beneath his feet, one he could finally call his own. He hadn't realized how much 'playing the bride's maid' for so long had bothered him. After hearing and remembering Benjamin Teller's lectures on how mutiny was neither honorable nor right with the Pirate's Code, he had never seen himself committing it. As thinking of this brought forward a sea of questions and doubt, Barbossa immediately quelled any related thought.

At a distance, the Isle de Muerta was just a dark blot on the horizon shrouded in an eerie fog. This fog would prove to be a slight hindrance; navigating in fog was never a thing to be enjoyed. The _Black Pearl _seemed the over zealous horse wanting to fly forward long before the gun, as eager as the pirates to find gold. And, much as Barbossa would like to see just how fast the _Pearl_ could move, he had to force down this impulse and rein her in. The ship, pouting now in her forced, sluggish state, poked along through the fog. Gradually, as they drew closer to shore, a large black wall loomed up before them. Several times an angry, harried 'hard to port' floated through the fog as a cliff took them by surprise. Navigation finally came down to improvisation; two men standing at the bow with long ropes that had heavy knots tied at the end. They would each take turns throwing out the knotted ends of the rope. If the knots bounced back, they knew to turn and avoid head-on collisions. All along the cliffs, evidence of past treasure hunters clung to the rocks in the form of rotted, barnacled debris. It was a veritable graveyard. The heavy mist closed in on them so tightly that one could barely see the crow's nest any longer. Barbossa lost the battle long ago against the periodic chills that ran up his spine as the mist clung to his clothes and face. Even the monkey, dressed in miniature clothes as he was, seemed chilled.

Finally, after long hours of trying to find some sort of weak spot in the sheer black cliffs, they finally slid into a small bay. There was no fog in the bay to speak of. But it seemed like it wanted to follow them in, clinging doggedly to the sides of the _Pearl_ with thin, wispy tendrils. The crew of pirates let out a sigh of relief, glad to be free of the oppressive, unnatural fog. Spirits were farther enhanced as they sighted a cavern with the waters of the bay running into it.

The splash of the anchor echoed harshly across the water and Barbossa felt himself wince at the intrusive noise. The entire crew was out in force on the deck, looking out at the rocky shore with greedy eyes. Barbossa could feel the anticipation buzzing even into his boots. "Lower the boats. Clive, Buckland, you two stay 'ere," he ordered as he came down from the quarterdeck to single out two pirates. The pair slumped dejectedly as the others jeered at them, simultaneously working the cranks and lowering the long boats into the water. The monkey squeaked once, pointing excitedly to the island. After celebrating the successful mutiny, they had decided to name him Jack, mocking the former captain. The monkey didn't seem to mind; he even liked the name, considering he'd never had a name before.

Barbossa asserted himself into the prow of the lead boat. The surface of the bay was like iron-blue glass, a testament to the deep waters around the island. Oars splashing, the boats angled towards a large rift in between the cliffs, the cavern. Even with the thought of prospective treasure up ahead, the crew's mood seemed subdued. Barbossa had a feeling this was due to the dark little island and its stifling fog. The pain in his shoulder was striking with a vengeance and the captain shifted uncomfortably, determined to ignore it. Soon, the dark maw of the cavern swallowed them. Torches were lit in the boats and held aloft, the light bouncing off the rocky walls.

There was an exclamation of surprise from one of the boats as they passed a rock shelf. All of them turned to find the torch casting light over a decomposed corpse, a spear sticking up from its back. More skeletons appeared along the way, some stuck to the walls with more spears, a few in the water with rusted swords running through them. It was unknown whether these lost souls were the remnants of the Aztecs of legend or casualties in some battle fought long ago or if they were even former pirates come to get the treasure of the Isle de Muerta. And if they _were_ pirates...what killed them? "Easy, lads," Barbossa said as nervous mutterings came from each of the boats. Unconsciously, his hand gripped his sword hilt. More things began appearing in the water, this time a good deal better than skeletons. Coins, gold and shining glittered up at them from under the depths. This seemed to calm the more flighty pirates and the group settled.

The water came to a sudden end at a little beach inside the cavern. The prow of his boat slid into the near-black sand and Barbossa easily stepped off, the rest of the boats beaching with a hiss. Before them was a dark passage way. "One of ye with a torch, up here," he said. Isaak stepped forward with his torch and led the way into the dark.

"D'ye really think there's a curse?" Barbossa heard Ragetti say, his voice echoing off the walls. The crew, spooked as they were, glanced at each other warily.

"Curses ain't real, ye muttonhead," Pintel replied, dispersing any wonder. "They just says those type things t' keep the likes o' us away from the treasure."

"Really?"

"Of course," Barbossa snapped. "Now, shut yer yaps." Looking back to the front, he noticed a light growing at the end of the passage. The passage ended and the pirates filed out into a dimly lit, water-worn cave. Soft light from the sun came in through holes in the ceiling. Small pools of crystal clear water were here and there fed by hidden springs. As in the previous passages, various skeletons could be found.

Jack, being the observant little fellow he was, was the first to spot the treasure. Chattering, he dropped off of Barbossa's shoulder and skittered towards it. The wandering eyes of the crew went to the monkey and what he was making for. Perched on a rocky platform isolated in the center of the largest pool was an engraved golden chest, the noon sun pouring down on it. Barbossa was the first pirate to move towards it, followed soon by the rest of the crew. Sloshing through the icy water around it, they stepped up onto the chest's platform. There was a silent moment as the group assembled stared down at the chest, the reality striking them. The famed treasure was real. And they could claim it as their own.

"Open it." Barbossa's order startled a few men out of the reverie and two of them moved forward to lift the heavy lid from the chest. The sparkle of gold was reflected in every man's face as they feasted their greedy eyes on the treasure inside, low whistles escaping a few. Hundreds of individual coins, each painstakingly molded by the hands of the Aztecs, stared back at them. Barbossa looked up at the crew, triumphant greed clear and true in his own expression. "Seems t' be we've struck it rich, eh lads?" Around him, the pirates laughed, scattered ayes sounding here and there. Barbossa gestured towards the tunnel. "Go get the bags."

The crew lost no time in hurrying off to retrieve the brown sacks they'd brought to transport the gold. Barbossa watched them go for a second and then let his gaze turn back to the innards of the chest. One hand drifted down to casually drag across the surface of the coins. The clink of metal on metal was pleasing to the ear. Smirking, Barbossa stored this accomplishment away in his memory. He knew that fortune and fame, or infamy perhaps, lay with the possession of these pieces of gold. A bright, piratical future lay ahead of them.

However, the bloody history behind the treasure, snubbed as it was by Barbossa and his crew, would soon come into play. Blinded, he did not see the bloodstains marring the surfaces of some of the coins. And he did not know that the crew of the _Black Pearl _was not the first crew to ever come across the cursed treasure of the Isle de Muerta. The last remnants of that first crew were scattered derelict on the ground.

--

AN: Eh, kind of a slow, short chapter. But, things will pick up a little in the next one. Thanks to all you readers out there and I appreciate the comments on the last chapter. I could have done a lot better with editing and researching that one indeed. I do plan on going back and fixing it sometime. Anyway, hope to have you all reviewing again this time 'round! As for the rope bit I mentioned; I take creative license with that. I'm not quite sure if this sort of method was used. I do know they did such a thing with weighted rope to check depths and the like.

Next chapter: Tales from the cursed years. True drabble-ness abounds! Four chapters in one! …maybe…if they're not too long.


	8. The Cursed Years Mvt 1

1, 2, 3… weeks/months/years ADC (After Discovery of Curse)

_Monkey POV! _ Excluding foreword and quote before Bootstrap's Bootstraps

----

_Following the discovery of 882 identical pieces of Aztec gold hidden on the secret island dubbed the Isle de Muerta, what follows for Captain Hector Barbossa and the crew of the _Black Pearl_ is a decade of destruction, torment, and plunder. Several notable experiences stand out and are to be cited herewith._

_-Richard Harvey, recorder_

-Ashes to Ashes-

Greed. A sin, one that commonly walked hand in hand with Lust. It turned man against man, brother against brother, and drove desperate beings to sacrifice everything. More often than not, those who committed it went largely unpunished. But, those who did receive their due, received it more than they ever thought possible. Such now is the case of a certain crew of a certain ship. So far, their punishment has been subtle, unnoticed as it slowly overcomes them like a disease fed by greed. A lost taste here. A missing sensation there. A convenient slight-of-hand by Mother Nature has hidden the outward signs; cloud-covered night skies. But now, the time of reckoning has come. For the mutinous crew of the _Black Pearl_, their nightmare is just beginning…

--

The rowdy, smoky atmosphere was as intoxicating as the rum that swirled in the tankards. A pair of drunken wenches danced on top of a table, a group of grimy men gathered around and cheering them on. The rolling melody of a jig poured from the corner of the tavern, one man sawing away on a fiddle, one on a bass, another on drums, and a fellow with no legs strumming a guitar. The instrument case at his lack of feet was slowly filling up with various bits of tender. The tavern, a seedy little dive dubbed Slap Jack's known for its amazing food and drink, was one of the most infamous places in wickedest town in piratedom; Port Royal, Jamaica. The thorn in many a naval officer's side, the place was the current pirate capital of the Caribbean. Port Royal made Tortuga look like a Sunday walk in the park. The privateers that populated it made faces at the Admiralty, taking advantage of the current appreciation of the employ of privateers to repeatedly bother the Spanish and become lawless vagabonds. However, this didn't stop a few admirals from establishing at least one commodore -- a one Bartholomew O'Hara --, petty officers, and general troops under Governor Thomas Modyford. Needless to say, the lenient governor kept a tight leash on O'Hara. As long as he held office, Modyford certainly wasn't about to allow the King's finest to sweep the streets and ruin business. So with nothing to worry about, Slap Jack's couldn't be happier, especially with the round of free drinks just purchased by the crew of the _Black Pearl_.

A golden coin passed from the grimy hand of a crewman to the hand of a bar maid, who plunked a tankard down on the table. Instantly, the coin with its exotic, Aztec design became a topic of conversation. "That be a right diff'rent bit o' change yer carryin'. Care t' impart where ye found it?" The eyes of the speaker, a snaggle toothed individual, lit up with intrigue and not a little bit of greed as they glanced at the crewman and the handful of coins he returned to a pocket. The crewman, the gangly one-eyed Ragetti, glanced up from his drink, wiping foam from his upper lip. For a second, he looked across the crowded room to find Barbossa sitting at a table with Pintel, Twigg, and Koehler playing cards. He remembered, vaguely, that Barbossa had suggested that they didn't brag too loudly about finding the treasure or where they found it. There was no sense in motivating others to try and take it. Determined, Ragetti fixed a stubborn eye on the other man.

"I ain't gonna tell you. It's a secret." Ragetti tittered inwardly. Even if he did tell the old miser where Isle de Muerta was, he wouldn't find anything. They'd taken the entire contents of the chest with them and by now, a large majority of it had been frittered away. It was an amazing feat after just one week.

"Is it now?"

"It is."

"'Nother drink ain't worth it?"

"Does I look like I can't buy me own?" Snaggle Tooth pouted, his plans foiled. Ragetti made a face at him and got up from the table to make for the one the captain and others were. Barbossa spoke as he approached.

"I take it he asked ye," the captain stated, eyes still on his cards.

"I didn't say nothin'," Ragetti responded proudly.

"Good lad." Barbossa, mellowed by rum and the music, was in a good mood. He even allowed himself to tap a toe along with the rollicking jig. Things couldn't have been running more smoothly. A plump serving woman appeared at the table skillfully balancing a tray of tankards on one hand.

"'Ere ya be, sahs," she said with a dazzling lip-curl of a smile, taking the tankards and setting them down before each of them. "Best Kill Devil we got 'round these parts, it be. I 'ope ye can foot the' bill, eh?"

"Many thanks, miss," Barbossa replied simply with a smile, digging in a pocket for a coin. The others followed suit. The serving woman seemed to glow as the pieces of gold were placed into her hand.

"No, thank you, sah," she replied, the gold reflecting in her eyes as she whirled around to sashay back to the bar. Koehler picked up his tankard, swirling the potent liquid inside a little. He glanced up at Barbossa, the mug halfway to his mouth.

"Good t'see ye in such a favorable mood, Cap'n," he ventured. Barbossa looked up from his cards with an honestly cheerful smirk, reaching for his own tankard.

"Well… we're rich, the music n' company's fine, n' we got the entire Caribbean at our disposal." He hefted his drink. "Even I'm willin' enough t' drink t' that."

The others agreed heartily and their tankards met over the table with a clink before being pulled back for a swallow. But, instead of the sweet, fiery alcohol he expected, Barbossa got a mouthful of the worst rum he'd ever drank. Even after spraying rum onto the floor, a very strange taste lingered on his tongue. He looked wildly at the rum. It was bizarre. It tasted foul but at the same time, it tasted of nothing. And yet…he wanted more.

Likewise, the rest of the crew at the table deposited the rum either onto the floor or as in Ragetti's case, dribbled it back into the tankard with a wry face and a noise of disgust. "Best Kill Devil my arse!" Twigg exclaimed angrily, promptly dumping the rum out on the floor. Barbossa was too late in trying to stop him, knowing full well what sort of response those blasphemous words would get. The jig came to a sudden halt and the eyes of nearly all the patrons turned upon them. Slap Jack's was indeed known far and wide for their extraordinary brew from the humblest of ales to the strongest of Wormwoods, a green-hued French alcohol. The owner had friends high in the pirate hierarchy. And to denounce such fame publicly, not to mention _aloud_, was to call down the wrath of those loyal to Slap Jack's.

"You idiot," Barbossa hissed, throwing his cards down on the table and getting to his feet. He reached over and swiftly slapped Twigg on the back of the head. Cursing under his breath, Barbossa knew he had to come up with something to get them out of the frying pan. And fast.

"There a problem 'ere?" The nasally voice of Slap Jack's owner cut through the silence like a rusty knife. The crowd parted immediately to allow a small, rotund pirate next to the table. He glared at Barbossa and the four crewmen with beady little eyes, arms akimbo and apparently unafraid that the men he spoke to were probably twice his height. Barbossa automatically put on as good-natured a smile as he could muster.

"Of course not," he assured, figuratively batting the issue out of the air. "This one just don't know good rum when he gets hold of it." Twigg snorted indignantly but fortunately held his tongue.

The owner looked far from convinced. "Doesn't he? Well-" The little man didn't get a chance to finish as a loud spluttering noise came from across the room. All eyes turned to a single man. It was another member of the _Pearl_'s crew. The pirate froze, mouth open and fork in mid-swipe, as he had been scraping food from his tongue. His eyes darted around at all the faces turned to him. Depositing the rest of the half-chewed food back onto his plate, he spoke.

"It tasted like ash!"

Barbossa covered his face with one hand as the click of pistol hammers being pulled back erupted across the room. "We're dead, ain't we?" Pintel whispered, leaning closer to Barbossa. The pub owner looked back to the captain, his jowly face a mixture of incredulity and annoyance.

"I believe it's best ye leave, mate."

"Took the words outta me mouth," Barbossa grumbled in response. His good mood gone, he started for the door. The other four followed him as the crowd parted. The man with the food promptly dropped his fork and scrambled for the door. The rest of the crew, mixed in with the crowd, also took the hint and followed after Barbossa.

His hand was on the doorknob when a solitary scream tore the irascible atmosphere wide open. Before he could turn, the crowd surged as the group by the window parted like a flock of startled gulls. Heads suddenly blocked his view. Now quizzical, the eyes of the group assembled turned to that spot. Almost as soon as that happened, there were shouts of surprise and, strangely, terror. Insulted pride had given way to cold fear. Shoving the people blocking him, Barbossa pushed through the crowd. Stepping out of the wall of people, his eyes befell on a scene that seemed to be out of a nightmare.

Sitting at the table and bathed in moonlight were Isaak and two other _Pearl_ crew members. It was nothing out of the ordinary but that wasn't what made even Barbossa's blood run cold. In place of regular flesh and blood were three walking corpses. Parchment-like skin hung from startlingly viewable bones, rotted and pock-marked. It was as if they had suffered thousands of years of decomposition in a solitary night. On instinct, Barbossa stumbled backwards and away from his men, who had now just noticed the horrific transformation. Their own expressions melted into ones of horror as they scrambled away from each other. This set off the entire pub. Screams and shouting deafened Barbossa as the crowd surged for the door, the kitchen, anywhere to get away from the monsters.

Barbossa surprised himself by starting to follow suit. He usually wasn't frightened or startled easily. Then again, he usually didn't come across something like this. His legs came to an unwilling halt and he balanced on the balls of his feet to see over the mass movement of people as they scrambled about. The spooked pirates by the window had moved out of the moonlight and, for some reason, they were normal again. What was going on? Barbossa began pushing his way back to the window. He got within a few strides of Isaak when someone ran into him and knocked him to the ground. He fell directly into the moonlight streaming through the window. "Captain!" Isaak's voice was uncharacteristically startled. Barbossa got to his feet, mouth open to ask what was wrong when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window.

A blue-eyed monster stared back at him, a death's head capped by wispy tendrils of hair and a tattered hat. _This is a nightmare. Any second now, I'll wake up_… He held his hands out in front of him. A skeleton's hands they were, bits of flesh clinging here or there, joints grinding whenever he moved them. "Look!" The man who cried out was another crewmember. He pointed out the window. Almost failing to look past his hideous reflection, Barbossa followed the man's gaze.

Several of his crewmen had run outside with the crowd and were standing just out the door. They were gazing in horror upon each other for they too had transformed. But, oddly, it was only the pirates from the _Black Pearl_ that were changing. None of the terrified patrons had decomposed. Only them. Barbossa could only stare in wonder, lost in a fog. What had brought this curse down upon them? Then it hit him like a cannon ball. "The curse," he choked, turning to the crewmembers still in the tavern. One of his hands slipped into his pocket and closed around one of the pieces of Aztec gold. He held it up before him and it glinted in the moonlight.

The scared eyes of Isaak, Pintel, Twigg, Koehler, and the others turned to the coin. "It's real…"

Ragetti came out from behind an overturned table, his one eye wide and fixated on the coin. They looked at him. "It's laughing." Indeed, Barbossa fancied he heard manic laughter in the far corners of his mind. It sent shivers down his spine.

"Well, wot do we do?" Pintel asked, a note of hysteria in his voice. The eyes of the crew whirled back to Barbossa.

"What d'we do…What d'we do…" he whispered to himself. For what may have been the first time in his life, Barbossa didn't know what to do. He couldn't think. He couldn't even move out of the moonlight…

"Captain Barbossa?" Barbossa looked up at Ragetti, the use of his title suddenly bringing him back to earth. A strange clarity of mind came over him, the clarity one may feel after experiencing great shock. The younger man's expression was imploring. "Captain, what do we do?"

"We…need to know," Barbossa began, his tongue coming back to him steadily. "We need to know what this curse does and what cures it." Fortunately, those present nodded in acquiesce. Barbossa tried to keep from making a face, his old self coming back a little. He didn't like this coming out of shock. It was almost like trying to walk for the first time. "Get back to the ship." But, in spite of being just as disturbed as any of the men he ordered around, he had to do his duty as captain and keep a level head. The coin was returned to his pocket and Barbossa pivoted on one heel and made for the door, the crew following in his wake.

Stepping outside into the moonlight, he imagined he could feel the change coming over him like feeling of numbness. There were still crewmembers standing frozen in the street. The civilians that had been in the tavern were long gone having fled in terror. Barbossa paused and turned again as Isaak started to walk past him. His hand reached out and pulled the bo'sun's pipe from its hanging place around his neck and place it to his lips. The sound rang clear and harsh, starting at an unbearably high pitch and dropping down once to a bearable lower one. It seemed to snap the men still standing outside back into themselves. It even helped Barbossa focus. "Crew of the Pearl, to me!" he shouted. Almost timidly, his men seemed to come alive again and moved uneasily towards him.

Barbossa made a quick head count. Luckily, they'd had the sense to not run far. Utterly amazing, he thought sardonically. They weren't the brightest lot but they were his crew. Before he could make any sort of speech, one man spoke up. "It's that curse, ain't it?"

"Aye, as it turns out-"

"Then Jack Sparrow was tellin' the truth." Bootstrap Bill stepped forward and Barbossa felt a sneer curling his lip. Apart from the others, he didn't seem to be that badly disturbed by the startling turn of events. The man made for a pitiful, forlorn-looking corpse. "How do you propose we find away to reverse this?"

"Mind that tone o' yourn, Bootstrap," Barbossa replied tartly. "We'll find a way."

"We 'ave an idea, if we could venture…?" Barbossa looked over his shoulder at the tentative reply. The lanky Ragetti and the squat Pintel. Barbossa seemed to accept this and gestured to them, giving the unlikely pair the floor. He watched Pintel poke Ragetti and then argue a moment to see who would go first. Barbossa rolled his eyes wearily. Ragetti finally gave in after losing a quick duel of rock-paper-scissors.

"Well…there's a man, a pirate, what knows the mechanisms of curses n' a manner of all sorts o' things. They call 'im the Pirate Recorder. He's s'pposed to be able to speak a thousand languages and write two thousand. He's kept pirate hist'ry for the past twenty years or so. Maybe 'e can 'elp?"

Barbossa nodded to himself. It seemed like a reasonable plan, considering they had no idea what sort of unworldly powers they were dealing with. "Then we go to find 'im." There was a general murmur of agreement. "Does he have a name?"

The two scratched their heads quizzically. "Was it…Smith?"

"No, no, no. It began wiv an 'H'."

"Harold?"

"Hardy?"

"Holdstern?"

Then, like mirror images, their expressions lit up. "Harvey! Richard Harvey!"

"What island?" Isaak broke in.

"I 'ear he's on Haiti," one pirate said.

"That belongs to the Frenchies," another grumbled. At this, the entire group seemed to groan. Barbossa batted the statement out of the air with a wave of his hand.

"French or not, it seems we don't 'ave much of a choice, lads. Get back to the ship and weigh anchor."

"Aye, Cap'n!" came the strong reply. Like one, the crew of pirates moved off as one, their plight forgotten in the brain-storming.

--

The _Black Pearl_ had never moved faster than she did on that trip to Haiti. Barbossa saw it fit to let out full canvas and let the zealous horse take the reins and run with them. She didn't seem to mind that she carried cursed pirates. In fact, with the curse about their heads, there was an odd surreal quality about her. Tendrils of fog seemed to cling to her sides like old friends and, though they were in a sorry state of affair, her sails caught every scrap of wind they could. Within two days flat they were half a league off the coast of Haiti, a blistering speed for the time.

The House of Harvey was plainly visible from the water; a large castle-like structure precariously close to the shore on an under-developed side of the island. It looked like a king lived there and not some pirate historian who was pirate himself. Barbossa didn't even like looking at it through a spyglass. He lowered the glass with a distasteful look, his expression mirrored by Jack the monkey who was perched on his shoulder. Poor Jack had been spooked when the crew of corpse pirates came aboard the _Pearl_ that night. Likewise, the crew was spooked as well to find that Jack didn't escape the curse either. "Yer sure this be the place?" Barbossa queried, turning to look upon Ragetti and Pintel who stood behind him on the quarterdeck of the _Pearl_. They only grinned sheepishly. In the next hour, they anchored the _Pearl_ closer to shore and lowered a long boat. Isaak was left in charge of the rest of the crew while Barbossa, Twigg and Koehler, Pintel and Ragetti went ashore to meet the Recorder.

It was a quiet trek across the water. Even Pintel and Ragetti, who debated about anything that came up, were silent as they rowed. Barbossa, with Jack on his shoulder, stood in the prow of the boat and was inwardly thankful nobody spoke. It just wasn't the occasion. There was a small dock set up at the beach and a dinghy of fair size was tied off to it, probably Harvey's. Leading up to the house from the dock was a sandy path that cut through a short stretch of jungle. As the dock came within reach, Barbossa stepped up onto it and turned to catch the rope Twigg tossed to him to tie it off. "This better be the place or it's youz two's heads we'll be usin' to load the cannons with," he angled at Pintel and Ragetti. They gave each other brief, worried glances.

"We're c-confident, sir."

Barbossa snorted doubtfully and turned to head up the walkway. The castle-house was even more impressive up close. The pirates and monkey paused to take in the sight. Done in the flamboyant style of French Gothic architecture during its peak of popularity, it was a veritable castle microcosm with its own personal jungle around it. It defied everything Barbossa knew about pirates. If this really was the home of the Pirate Recorder, then Richard Harvey must be a very eccentric recorder indeed. Even the door looked rich placed at the top of a grand set of stone stairs. A knocker made of brass and molded like a lion with a ring in its mouth was mounted in the center of the door. Almost hesitantly, Barbossa reached out a knocked the heavy ring against the door. The noise was surprisingly loud, considering the thickness of the door. For at least a minute, there was no reply. Sharing a quizzical glance with Jack, Barbossa knocked again.

"'Old yer bloomin' 'orses!" The sharp, shrewish voice of a woman coming from the other side of the door made them jump. A few seconds later, the door flew open to reveal said woman. She was a very tall lady, standing at eye level with Barbossa. Her rust colored hair had been pinned back neatly but now it was dreadfully askew. She wore only a thick, oriental robe clasped around her and none too modestly. Over his shoulder, Barbossa could just see the eyes bugging out of Pintel and Ragetti's heads. "Wot d'yew want?" she demanded roughly, her painted lips pursed in a tight, irritated line.

"Is… Master Harvey about?" Barbossa asked, putting on the best fake smile he could. If looks could kill, they'd be piles of ash before this woman. "We have a favor t' ask of 'im."

"'Arvey's busy," she snapped dismissively and began pulling the door shut. Barbossa's friendly façade dissipated. He intervened and planted a hand against the door, holding it open. They had a mission to fulfill and this shrew wasn't about to get in the way.

"Miss, I don't think ye heard me correctly." The woman's features soured.

"'Ow dare you-"

"Ye'll be lettin' us in, then?" Barbossa didn't wait for a reply and stepped inside, sliding the woman from his path. Jack dropped down from his shoulder and crouched on the floor, looking at the new, clean surrounding. Being close behind Barbossa, Pintel and Ragetti were the next in. Twigg and Koehler would have followed as well but the woman leapt forward and angrily slammed the door in their faces and locked it. There was a dull thud as they bounced off it and rolled back down the stairs outside.

The entrance hall was even grander than the outside. The walls were practically draped with tapestries and portraits of pirates like Henry Morgan and Robert Reneger. Expensive looking vases and statues were on pedestals or mahogany desks or ebony stands here and there. Oriental rugs covered most of the slate tiled floor. There was a piano situated near a spiral staircase that led up to the second story. Barbossa couldn't believe his eyes, wandering slowly over to the foot of the stairs and coming to a stop. What sort of pirate lived here and how did he manage to afford all of this?

A click of a pistol hammer being pulled back interrupted his observing and he felt the business end be shoved up under his chin. "Ye'll be leavin' then?" came the mocking voice of the shrew as she walked around to face him, pressing the pistol mercilessly against his Adam's apple. "Mind yer cap'n, boys, n' keep them pea shooters at yer belts," she said, successfully preventing Pintel and Ragetti from drawing their own pistols.

"Touché, missy," Barbossa said. "I see ye've have some practice with pirates, eh?" She smiled unpleasantly at him.

"Jessica, darling, what's going on?" All four of them looked up at the top of the stairs to see a man coming down them. From his accent and clear enunciation, one would assume he was some sort of aristocrat if his appearance hadn't suggested otherwise. He wore only baggy pants and what looked to be some sort of skin-tight shirt. Upon closer observation, Barbossa discovered it to actually _be _his skin. Tattoos covered every inch of his upper half, arms, and neck. His hands, face, and ears were the only bits of skin exposed. There was a gold hoop in one ear and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses were held loosely in his left hand. He wore his sandy blonde hair pulled back, strands of it fallen out and around his face. This was Richard Harvey, the legendary Pirate Recorder.

To be frank, Barbossa was incredibly let down. He wasn't sure what he expected but this scrawny little man was certainly not what he expected. "These curs tried t' force their 'ands wiv me," Jessica declared haughtily.

"Oh, I'm sure you're over-reacting, dearie," Harvey replied, casting a green-eyed gaze over the group. He was about halfway down the stairs when he finally laid eyes on Barbossa. He froze in mid-step, one bare foot hovering over the next step. Barbossa noticed he seemed to only see the feathered hat. Harvey laughed nervously, starting a slow retreat back up the stairs. "Ah, B-Benjamin! L-lovely t' see you, mate! I'll have y-your money as soon as possible. I just-" With a mouse-like squeak, he whirled around and fled up the stairs.

For a long moment, Barbossa, Jessica, Pintel, and Ragetti just stared after the man. Finally, it was Pintel who broke the silence. "We didn't know yer name was Benjamin," he said, coming to stand abreast with Barbossa. The captain leveled an icy glare at the squat man.

"It's not," he almost spat, knowing exactly who Harvey thought he was. It was amazing; he'd gone almost thirteen years without being mistaken for Benjamin Teller and now this scurvy book keeper had ruined his record. He batted Jessica's pistol away from him and headed up the stairs after Harvey. He made it almost halfway before the woman and the two pirates followed suit. At the top of the stairs was a long hall and at the end of it, Barbossa caught a glimpse of Harvey darting into a room and closing the door. Heaving an irritated sigh through his nose, Barbossa went down the hall to the room. A plate on the door read 'Office of Richard Harvey.' After a few kicks, he managed to get the door open just in time to see Harvey making a run for an open window behind a desk in the middle of the room. "You fool!" he shouted, jumping forward to seize the recorder before he could leap out the window. "I'm not Benjamin Teller, you nitwit!"

"Don't hurt me, Ben, I—What?" Harvey turned to look at him, shaking off his grip. He squinted at him before putting on his glasses. His features brightened immediately. "So you aren't! Brilliant, old bean!" he cried, slapping Barbossa on the shoulder. "You must forgive me. I saw the hat and went into a complete panic…"

"Aye." Barbossa's tone was enough to sober Harvey there on the spot.

"Right," he replied, with a nervous smile, showing off gold capped teeth. "Now, how can I assist you gentlemen?" Behind Barbossa, Jessica and Pintel and Ragetti came into the room.

"'E didn't 'urt you, did 'e, Rick?" Jessica queried venomously, her pistol still in hand as she pushed Barbossa out of the way to stand beside Harvey.

"Of course not, love," Harvey said reassuringly. "Just a misunderstanding."

"I really hate t' interrupt here," Barbossa began derisively, "but we have a question that needs answerin'."

"Oh…right." Harvey gently lifted the pistol from Jessica's hands. "Jess, dearie, could you leave us, please?"

Jessica's disposition went suddenly sweet and she planted a kiss on Harvey's cheek. "Anythin', luv." Now glaring at Barbossa as she went, she left the room. Pintel and Ragetti scrambled out of her way.

"I apologize, my good man. She's a bit of a firebrand but really a good woman," Harvey said to Barbossa, gesturing to one of the cushy seats before the desk.

"Oh, I'm _sure_ of it," Barbossa replied, taking one of the seats. Harvey pulled up the desk chair next to him and sat down as well, simultaneously extending an ink-stained hand to Barbossa.

"Richard Harvey, pirate historian, at your service."

"Captain Barbossa, pirate captain, not at yours," he replied readily, accepting the hand shake.

"So what is it you want to know, captain? History? Lineage? Navigational routes?"

"What d'ye know of curses?"

Harvey's blonde eyebrows rose slightly. "Curses? Well, I can't say I've had such an inquiry before but I can say I'm fairly knowledgeable. Which curses?"

"Just one. The curse of the Isle de Muerta."

"Ooh…_That_ one." Pulling a face, Harvey got to his feet again and walked over to one of the numerous bookshelves lining the entire room. The shelves were chock full of books of all sizes. It was a wonder how just one man had been able to garner all that knowledge in one place.

"Must be bad," Barbossa heard Ragetti mutter and Pintel offer an affirmative. He shot a pointed look over his shoulder at them. Meanwhile, Harvey was thumbing through a large volume that looked to weigh as much as he did, mumbling 'Isle de Muerta' to himself over and over.

"Ah. The curse of the Isle de Muerta, island of the dead." He chuckled ruefully and walked back over to the desk. "Interesting."

"What?" As a reply, Harvey dropped the open book on the desk.

"Take a look." Pintel and Ragetti came forward as Barbossa leaned in a little to look at the pages.

"They're blank!"

"Exactly," Harvey replied, sliding back into his chair and meshing his fingers together. "I had a man who was doing research but he never reported back to me. I could only assume he was killed."

"Then ye know nothing," Barbossa surmised, sitting dejectedly back in his seat.

"Not entirely true. But I have to wonder, Captain Barbossa…of what interest is this to you?"

Barbossa laughed then, a low, knowing laugh, and crossed his arms over his chest. "About a week and a half ago, my crew and I found the Isle de Muerta and looted it." Harvey's eyes widened.

"You're cursed!"

"You are correct, sir," Pintel interjected somewhat sarcastically.

"Then the rumors are true. Two days ago, I had a report come in speaking of a disturbance in Port Royal, Jamaica. Supposedly, demons had scared witless and entire pub. Living dead pirates. That was you."

"Aye. So ye can imagine we have a need t' find a cure. What do ye know?"

Harvey stroked his scruffy chin thoughtfully, looking up at the ceiling. "Well…from what I've heard, the curse is fed off greed. And that it gives the condemned ones immortality."

"Immortality?" the combined voices of Barbossa, Pintel, and Ragetti asked.

"Oh, why yes." At this, Harvey got to his feet and walked around the deck to Ragetti. Without any warning, he pulled the pirate's pistol from his belt, cocked it, and shot Ragetti where he stood. The gangly man staggered backwards with a yelp. Barbossa leapt to his feet and seized him before he could fall over. Ragetti was alive! He didn't even seem hurt. "See?" Harvey placed the pistol back in Ragetti's belt as if nothing had happened. "No dead."

"Is that all?" Barbossa asked, poking in amazement at the neat little hole in Ragetti's chest.

"That's the limit of my knowledge, yes. I hate to admit it."

"Is there anyone ye know that can help?"

Harvey lapsed into thought again, tapping the bridge of his nose now. "Now that you mention it, I do think there's a guru on Dominica that's an expert on curses. They call him Teo."

"Then we go to Dominica," Barbossa declared, releasing Ragetti. Harvey smiled.

"I'm glad to have been of service to you, captain. Best of luck." Barbossa nodded, amazed that the man hadn't requested some sort of payment. Pintel and Ragetti meandered out of the office, still in awe of the bullet hole in Ragetti. Barbossa paused at the door, however, a thought striking him.

"If ye don't mind me askin', why in blazes is a well-spoken man such as yerself a pirate? Ye certainly not what I expected."

Harvey seemed amused. "You want the truth?"

"That would help."

"I'm a slacker, captain. Any kind of work makes me shudder. I never would have been able to survive on my own in the legal world so I decided that being a pirate and stealing whatever I needed was for the best."

"How did the recording job come along?"

"One could say I inherited it from the last historian."

"And all the money?"

At this, the man smiled slyly, the first piratical characteristic Barbossa had seen on Harvey. "Again, one could say I get around. _A lot_. And you hear things that can make a man…or break him."

Barbossa smirked, chuckling and decided not to ask anymore. "Thank 'ee, Harvey."

"It was a pleasure, Captain Barbossa."

-Bootstrap's Boostraps-

1 week ADC

"_Bootstrap Bill? Yeah, I knew 'im. Never sat well wiv Bootstrap what we did to Jack Sparrow. Said it weren't right wiv de Code... As ye can imagine, that didn't sit too well wiv de captain. So he tied a cannon to Bootstrap's bootstraps and the last we of 'ol Bill Turner, 'e was sinkin' to the crushin' black oblivion of Davy Jones' locker..." _

"You _what?_"

"You heard what I said, Barbossa." The sound of a fist meeting a jaw echoed strangely in the cabin. The receiver of this blow was knocked to the floor and out of the clutches of the large Jamaican who had drug him into the cabin in the first place.

"That's _captain _to you!" A boot entered the man's side. "I ask again; you did _what_?" "Bootstrap" Bill Turner looked up from his position on the floor, one hand clutching his now bruised side. An uncharacteristically angry expression had seized his usually calm features.

"I sent off a piece of the treasure while we were stopped in Haiti!" he retorted sharply, getting slowly to his feet to stand nose to nose with Barbossa. A furious fire was burning in Barbossa's eyes as he glared at the man before him. Ever since the mutiny, he had begun to strongly dislike Bootstrap more and more as days went by. The man seemed to spurn his authority and if there was anything Barbossa didn't like, it was a pretentious underling. And even worse, he was constantly sympathizing with the long gone Jack Sparrow.

"And _what_, pray tell, prompted that?" Barbossa replied with as much venom.

"That mutiny was not right with the code! Based on the laws set down by the Order o' the Brethren, there's supposed to be a vote, a system of fairness. What we did was far from fair." Bootstrap sneered. "You'll never find that medallion. You deserve to be cursed. _We_ deserve to be cursed and remain cursed because of that very reason!"

"We're pirates, you idiot. We don't follow rules. We're not rebels with a cause! We're bloody villains, scallywags, rogues! If ye hadn't noticed, we aren't in Shipwreck Cove and the Code can be interpreted or distorted as we please."

Bootstrap opened his mouth to speak but Barbossa wouldn't let him. He was far too gone on a tangent now to let the man get a word in edgewise. Isaak just stepped out of the way, knowing very that if he got involved Barbossa would not spare him. Jamming a finger into Bootstrap's chest, the captain advanced slowly, making the other take a few steps back. "N' now ye've gone and doomed us all on account o' _yer _blasted morals! I been tolerant enough with yer whinin' n' sympathizin' fer Jack Sparrow but this crosses the line, Turner!" Their movement came to a halt as Bootstrap's back met with the cabin door. By this time, Barbossa found that he was yelling in the man's face. It was a rare show of lack of control, he realized. But, even though it had been only two weeks into the curse, it was Hell on Earth for the crew of the _Black Pearl_. As far as they knew, the only way to lift the curse was to get back all the treasure that was lost. And that was a daunting task in itself.

The truth of it had been driven home for every pirate aboard that dark night. In a sense, they were all equals; just men trying to reverse a dire mistake by any means they could. And they all did realize it had been a mistake to take the treasure of the Isle de Muerta. It was the effects of the curse that was the worst part. In spite of still trying to eat regularly the food that had turned to ash in their mouths, they still felt like they were starving. Their thirst could not be quenched by any liquid. Greed was eating away at them and a physical manifestation of the sin is what they became. By day, normal pirates consisting of flesh and blood. But in the moonlight…Well, that showed them as what they truly were. Yes, desperate men on a desperate mission.

Bootstrap retained a haughty expression. "At least my conscience will be clear," he said quietly. Barbossa curled a lip with a snarl, savagely striking him again. So this was the original Bootstrap, the one that lived and worked legitimately, the one with that accursed honest streak – all evidence that men like him should never be pirates. Barbossa seized the front of Bootstrap's shirt, a punishment already coming to mind.

"Then to the depths with yer conscience." This statement was said in a terrible hiss as Barbossa pulled Bootstrap away from the door so he could open it. One handedly, he hauled Bootstrap around the door and shoved him out onto the deck. "Gather the crew!" Barbossa snapped over his shoulder to Isaak.

"Aye, sir," came the deep, stoic reply and the large man left the cabin. Isaak had an idea as to what his captain had in mind as a punishment and, to be quite frank, he wasn't complaining. Barbossa forced himself to stand in the doorway, eyes closed in a calming gesture to himself.

_The terrible noise of the argument had sent even Jack scurrying away. Never did he think that his master was capable of such obtrusive sounds. Crouched in the corner of the cabin amongst some books, he watched this whole scene with curiosity in spite of his fear. He had never seen Barbossa this angry. Frankly, it worried him. Jack concluded that the brown man was offensive in some way. Maybe it had to do with the shiny discs they'd found. There had been an awful lot of concern over them after the discovery of the ailment that turned them all into walking skeleton ghost things. _

Jack the monkey scrambled up onto Barbossa's shoulder with a worried chirp. It was amazing how well Jack seemed to understand. Taking another breath, Barbossa reached up the comfort the little creature before stepping out onto the deck and switching into captain mode again. Outside, it was a typical day in the Caribbean. The _Black Pearl _was in the middle of a trek towards Dominica and water, deep and blue, was all around them. Harvey, the man that translated most of the Aztec writing on the chest, had told them that there was a man more knowledgeable about curses there.

Isaak's brassy voice was in the process of calling all hands. This wasn't entirely necessary as most of the crew was on deck, having watched Isaak drag Bootstrap to the captain's cabin after hearing Bootstrap say that he sent off a piece of the treasure. Needless to say, they weren't exactly happy to hear this either and jeered at Bootstrap when he reappeared on deck. The former first mate was going to get what was coming to him and they were excited for it. The catcalls ceased however as Barbossa stepped out of his cabin. He heard them wait for him to speak but he paid no attention to them. Striding purposefully forward, he took Bootstrap by his shoulder and hauled him towards the nearest nine-pounder on deck. "Take the ropes off!" he snapped, gesturing sharply to Pintel and simultaneously shoving Bootstrap towards the cannon. Behind them, the crew members looked at each other. What was Barbossa going to do? Would he make Bootstrap shoot himself with the cannon as punishment?

Pintel scurried over to the cannon and was swift in removing the ropes that secured it to the deck. As soon as the last rope was lying on the deck, Barbossa gave orders again. "Detach that bit o' railin' and move the cannon before it. You two …tie him." Isaak and Mallet moved to execute the first order as Twigg and Koehler jumped to tie Bootstrap with the rope. Within seconds, the deeds were done and the entire crew now waited for their captain to make a move. Barbossa felt one of those nasty lip curls cross his features. "Now here before ye stands a traitor, worse 'n a mutineer." The men nodded, snickering. "Yore about to witness what happens to traitors."

The sound of his boots on the deck were loud and striking as Barbossa walked over to Bootstrap. He grabbed him by the arm. The man was as heavy as he looked and Barbossa had to drag him from his spot between Twigg and Koehler. Bootstrap's own expression reflected the crew's. "What are you doing?" he queried, former confidence now faded a little under the light of nervousness.

Jack jumped off his shoulder as Barbossa bent for the ropes around Bootstrap's ankles. With a few expert ties here and there, he soon had Bootstrap's bootstraps attached to the cannon. "Somethin' I shoulda done when I marooned Jack Sparrow," came his reply as he pushed against the cannon. Bootstrap's mouth formed an 'o' of surprise as the cannon began rolling towards the edge of the deck. "See you in Hell, Turner," Barbossa said so only Bootstrap could hear. The sound of the cannon being pushed ended suddenly as it dropped over the side. Bootstrap, unable to come up with neither a reply nor even a yelp of surprise, followed. The cannon hit the water and, with a gargantuan splash, William "Bootstrap" Turner was gone.

A smirk smoothed over the anger that had formerly reigned over Barbossa's features. "Now gents…" He turned around to face the crew. "I want that t' be an example fer ye." From the looks on their faces, he could tell that the demonstration had surprised them. As of yet, he hadn't exacted a punishment this extreme. He did come across as a ruthless pirate but just how ruthless was something none of them really knew. They'd seen him cut down men without qualms once or twice in raids but nothing like this yet. "So far, I haven't had t' force my hand as captain. And accordin' to the Code, I don't force my hand without equal consent from you all." His contempt for restraint, even by the illustrious Order of the Brethren, was plain in the way he fairly spat 'the Code.' "But…I want every man o' ye t' know that I ain't gonna hesitate to do somethin' like this again should the need arise, whether I 'ave yer vote or not." He let this statement hang in the air for a moment. "Is that clear?"

"Aye aye, cap'n," came the general, cautious reply. Barbossa nodded once, satisfied.

"Good."

The call of the watcher in the crow's nest broke through. "Land ho! Two points off the starboard bow!" Barbossa looked towards the horizon. Off in the distance there was a dark blur. Dominica.

--

The man Harvey recommended would tell them the entire story of the cursed treasure of the Isle de Muerta as they still weren't sure how to lift the curse. And it would be there that Barbossa would come to regret tying a cannon to Bootstrap's bootstraps…

"_It wasn't until after that we found out we needed 'is blood t' lift the curse."_

"_Now that's wot you'd call __**ironic**__."_

--

AN: Sorry about the terrible delay and the length of this one. I decided to wait for At World's End to come out before I got back to work on this. And, obviously, things turned out a bit too long to have four drabbles in one chapter so I'm forced to split them up. Two in this one. Considering I have exams next week, classes shall end soon and I can have much more time to write. Yay!


	9. The Cursed Years Mvt 2

-Bloodlust: Touching the Dark -

12 months ADC

_Year one into condemnation. Had it truly been only, yet already, an entire year…? _

The only sign of a ship on the water was the bulbous light from a lantern, its rays caught in the swirling mists that had rolled in on the sunset tide. There wasn't a worse situation to be in, lost in fog and surrounded by the dark of the night. Especially in the waters of the Caribbean where ghosts were rumored to walk. However, with a destination of Kingston, they had no choice. And so the light of the lantern bobbed waywardly on, a lone light in the dark.

That light was all _they_ needed.

The boom of the cannon was close, so very close that the shower from the broadside hit its target with complete accuracy. Jarred from their hammocks, the men aboard the wayward vessel awoke to the tearing and splintering of wood and the screams of the crew that were maimed by eight-pound flying balls of lead. Some even perished in their sleep.

It didn't take the eyes of an eagle to see the disorganized figures now running about on the injured ship. Not with his own ship being so close. Unbidden, a vampiric smile lifted his weather-beaten features as he looked down upon the panicking victims. He chuckled, hearing their startled cries as a black ship loomed wraithlike and frightening on their starboard side. Another boom of the cannons rocked the black ship slightly, lighting up the night around them. The air coming off the shot sent the fog whirling and opened up a rift in the endless mist. Moonlight, pure and silver, cast down. His voice broke harshly through the boom of cannons. "Prepare to board, ye bloomin' cockroaches!" And then, seeming to come from every direction…laughter, manic and malevolent. The sailors only caught a fleeting glimpse of their fate as it came swinging at them in the form of the walking dead, the moonlight playing on their bones and rot-riddled flesh, making their eyes glow.

No, they would never truly find out what hit them that night. The only man left alive was found three days later, still pale and staring from shock, blood from a head wound still sticky on his brow. And the only thing audible he kept saying? _Black ship, black sails, ghosts…_

--

The coin rolled across his knuckles, fingers deftly navigating it now in the opposite direction. It was a strange thing that such an object, small as it was, caused so much trouble and cause to worry. Wouldn't the scholars be thrilled; size really _didn't_ matter. Hector Barbossa snorted lightly, now placing the coin in the center of his palm. The leering skull smelted onto the surface grinned up at him, laughing at him, taunting him. Hooded eyes taking on a light of annoyance, he pushed his chair back a little to prop his boots up on the table. Maps left by Jack Sparrow over a year ago shuffled slightly under his heels, protesting the rough treatment. The heave-and-pitch of the _Pearl_ beneath him titled the cabin back and forth gently, a pencil rolling across the maps to be lost in the folds of parchment.

A rogue shudder sent a tingle up his spine, the laughter of Cortés ringing in his ears. The _conquistador_ haunted his dreams after the initial discovery: scenes of terrible bloodshed around pyramids of gold, a feathered serpent casting a burning gaze on that wretched chest, silver-chested soldiers taking mercilessly the lives of the dark-skinned Aztecs, his scarlet stained hands clutching handfuls of gold and silver. And always, Barbossa was in the center, forced to watch and forced to learn the lesson laid before him in the disturbing images.

The slam of his hand on the table snapped him back into the real world. He was not surprised that the impact was something he couldn't feel but he could never quite steel himself for it. Even after a year, he still felt the hunger, experienced the thirst and the lust. And yet nothing when cold steel rent his flesh or a bullet entered his chest. A dead heart to feel heartbreak at not being able to live. It was all so…_contradictory_.

Only a year…he let his eyes close in frustration. The coin in his hand was number one hundred forty-one. An almost sobbing laugh escaped him. That left only seven hundred and forty-one to go. _Ha._ Opening his eyes, he knew this wasn't like him to be agonizing over something. He'd never felt this unfamiliar feeling before. Was it fear? No. Every pirate, no matter how black-hearted, felt fear. Was it sadness? No. He knew that as well, possibly more so than what people expected. Was it…helplessness? _No_. A hundred, a thousand times _no_. Barbossa swore that he would never feel such blasphemy. He'd wrought fate with his own hands since the day he left Cheapside, London and hadn't stopped since. He was never helpless.

A long-nailed hand reached up to stroke his chin, the other lifting up off the coin. Loss of humanity. That was it. He'd lost his humanity. But, it seemed such a trivial thing before the curse. Why care now? Had he taken it for granted? For the first question, Barbossa figured he didn't care. That was impossible as the curse had robbed him of a heart to care with. For the second question…maybe he had. Mortality led to humanity led to vulnerability led to weakness. That was how he summed it up. So, in a sense, he had taken it for granted. And now he had eternity to mourn for it if they didn't reclaim all those pieces of gold.

The laughter rang in his ears. "Greed." The word rolled off his tongue so well it was fairly amazing that it was a sin. But, in spite of those who refused to believe in God, it was a sin. And a punishable sin at that. Barbossa curled a lip, pushing the coin away from him.

This curse wouldn't defeat him. He'd show Cortés. He'd show them all. Hector Barbossa Haywood was not about to give up. There were advantages to this curse that a weaker, self-pitying man would not see.

A pulse. The laughter ceased in reverence and was replaced by a dull, muffled ringing punctuated every so often by a heart-beat like noise. The gold was calling.

--

The fog rolled in at about 1 A.M. The sleepy port on St. Vincent was dead to the meteorological anomaly, resting peacefully. And on the fog came the ghost ship. The _Black Pearl. _Not a word was spoken among the crew. They all went to their assigned stations, the routine practically embedded into their minds. Long boats were lowered into the fog-blanketed water. The cannons were pointed towards the fort and the bo'sun issued the fire order.

In the stern of the lead long boat as it headed towards shore, Barbossa cast a trained eye over the sleeping port. His vampiric smile, one of crooked yellow teeth, lifted his features once more. The cracking report of the guns was beginning to rouse the residents and local law enforcement. He looked over his shoulder at the crew rowing behind him. "Take what ye can, give nothin' back. If ain't broke, break it. If ain't yours, take it. And if anyone gets in the way…?" He let his voice rise slightly as if in question and lifted a hand with a flourish to cup his ear. The unanimous war cry of the crew rolled back at him.

Barbossa had to hand it to the redcoats; already they were storming the beach, flint locks raised and aimed. They were much more efficient than the last port they sacked. The crisp orders of a marine lieutenant rang out immediately followed by the crack of the rifles. Barbossa actually watched as at least three bullets lodged into his chest, gut, and leg respectively. The smell of gunpowder floated on the air and he breathed it in with his monster's smile. It was too bad there wasn't a good moon out tonight or it would have been a lot more enjoyable to see the terror on these over-confident pups' faces as they beheld the moonlit transformation.

The rise onto the beach passed into a blur as the crew rushed around him like a wave. Barbossa felt he rather missed the cool, spiky feeling of adrenaline rushing through his veins. The first bullet he shot caught a poor fellow between the eyes. His other pistol took out the lieutenant. Upon drawing his sword, he could feel that Cortés rising in him and bloodlust pulling his lips back in a feral snarl. Before, he'd always try to quell this feeling in order to stay in control. But now, as the thought of gold had tempted him, now the thought of power tempted him, made him stretch a hand out to the darkness.

It welcomed him with a smile of velvet fangs and open arms.

* * *

-Old Acquaintances-

3 ¾ years ADC

The small port town of Standish was a port in its infancy on the western coast of Jamaica, decidedly insignificant in comparison to the bustling Port Royal that was steadily overtaking the entire island. In spite of its smallness, however, it was quite successful in its own meek little way, quarterly pulling in hardly a fourth of what Port Royal did but pulling in more than enough for the town itself. It had its docks, various cleanly run taverns, carpenter, blacksmith, mayor, etc. But of the mainly sole proprietorships in Standish, it was in fact the surgeon and a local pub that were the most well known. Coincidentally and not to mention conveniently, they were located right across the street from each other. The surgeon was known under the name Kristofer P. Tawny but everyone just called him Doc Kipper. The pub was called The Flute N' Rum and its owner went by the name Abraham Meyer. There wasn't a soul in Standish that didn't know of the two. With their business coinciding together, the largest percentage of Standish's income passed through their hands. And that was what made them obvious targets.

"Is that all?"

"Aye." The informant opened a hand and given a spare farthing for his troubles.

"Is that all?" the young man queried again. Suddenly, he was hauled off his feet and found a knife perilously close to his jugular. One of the shadowy figures in the alley detached itself and came forward around the larger one holding the lad by the front of his shirt.

"Keep flappin' yer jaw n' that won't be all I'll order this man t' give ye."

"Really?"

"Don't test me, boy. Take yer farthin' n' get." The large shadow dropped the lad back to his feet and the kid took off, clutching his meager tithe. The two figures watched him disappear down the alley and around the corner of a building before one of them spoke. "Ye think he'd lie?"

The large shadow shook its head. "No, sah. He may 'av been stupid but he weren't lyin'."

"He better hope he weren't," the first growled, sending a pointed look in the direction the boy took and then turning on one heel to head in the opposite direction towards another street. The large shadow followed. As they withdrew from the depths of the alley, light played on their once hidden features. The larger shadow was a burly beast of a man of African descent, the markings of his home tribe still around his eyes and in various patterns on his bare chest. The other was somewhat smaller than the slave-turned-pirate but he was no less intimidating. From his garb, he too fit the pirate bill; feathered hat, long overcoat, folded-over boots, scarred visage, saber, and pistol. He walked with a slight limp in his left leg.

This was a captain and his bo'sun, the first known as Barbossa and the second known as Isaak. The two talked as they made their way to the street, not even looking at each other as they did. "So it seems we must be targetin' dis surgeon and pub."

"Aye, if that scamp didn' jus' take us fer a pair o' fools," Barbossa replied, pausing as they stepped out of the alley and looking both ways. The cobblestone streets of Standish were only bothered with moderate traffic at best and it wasn't uncommon to see lone persons making their way down an empty street. Barbossa and Isaak didn't even register a glance from an old woman knocking dirt from a rug not two feet away.

"What if de gold isn't dere?"

"Then we take the treasury n' from there, the mayor's. I'll scout out these two meself. Get back to the ship n' tell the crew we're to attack as soon as we have th' cover o' darkness."

"Aye, aye, sah." And with that, Isaak took a right and headed down the sloping street to the docks. Barbossa looked after him and could easily pick out the _Black Pearl_ sitting like a beast in repose amongst various merchant ships, some smaller and some larger. Sniffing lightly, Barbossa proceeded to take a left and make for the upper part of the town where Tawny and Meyer were supposed to have their businesses.

As a pirate, one could expect that Barbossa wasn't quite used to trekking up hills. He wasn't. The slope leveled out just as the sign of The Flute N' Rum came into view. Slightly winded, he looked at each of them in turn. The buildings seemed to be like any other regular building, the surgeon's on the left and the pub on the right. They shouldn't be too difficult to break into. Most of the crew would be looting the rest of the town just in case there were any other pieces of Aztec gold about. They'd only felt one precursory pulse but, had there been more than one coin dropped in the water, they would never know unless they searched.

It was very likely that Tawny and Meyer were in cahoots with one another and put their businesses across from each other on purpose. People who happened to receive an injury in The Flute N' Rum could just stagger across the street to the surgeon's. It was just good business. Barbossa inhaled deeply and let his senses stray. Ah, faintly, there it was. The familiar throbbing in his ears, the siren's call of the gold. He nodded to himself with a smirk. It was here.

--

Unbeknownst to Barbossa, there was a face watching him from the upper story of the surgeon's office. The young apprentice of Tawny himself drew away from the window with a perplexed expression. "Someone having fits in the street again, Robert?"

The young man turned to the speaker. Behind a small roll top desk sat the one and only Kris Tawny a.k.a. Doc Kipper. The surgeon had dark hair streaked with grey and brown eyes that seemed to laugh behind the pair of spectacles balanced on his nose. He did not look up from his task of writing out accounting notes. "Nay," Robert replied. "There's an odd looking fellow down there. I think he may be lost." He hardly seemed concerned. The apprentice then turned his gaze on the newsletter in his able hands and meandered over to a cushy chair resting next to Tawny's desk.

The doctor's eyes glanced up only briefly to rest on the paper. He made a noise of near-disgust. "Those pirates struck St. Vincent _again_? Those bloody dogs are taking piracy a bit too far, me thinks."

Robert sighed in agreement. "There's a rumor running about that they're cursed. And for real, too. I heard that they turn into ghosts or immortal corpses or something morbid like that."

"Bah." Tawny dashed the tip of his quill into the inkwell and continued writing. "Hallucinations. They tend to strike when one is under stress and, believe you me; one is rather stressed when being set upon by pirates."

"To be sure," Robert replied, turning the paper over to read the back. Tawny reached for a small bag sitting on one of the shelves of the desk; the week'f profit. Humming a jaunty, Scottish-sounding tune, he undid the drawstring and dumped the contents into a neat pile just to the right of his papers. The coins made a merry jingling sound as they struck each other. It brought a thoughtful smile to Tawny's face, remembering a time when he didn't used to go by the name Kris Tawny. Almost excitedly, he began separating the money into farthings, pounds, etc. to count them out. However, one piece made him pause. Brow furrowing, he picked it up to let light from the window play off its golden surface. Larger in diameter than any of the other coins, it didn't even have a coat of arms on it. There was a face smelted into it but it was no royal profile. It was a skull.

--

The summer heat slacked off as the day progressed and the sea breeze swept away the oppressive heat and humidity. Clouds had begun to gather in the early afternoon and the infant night's skies were largely choked with storm clouds. As common during the hot months, many of the days were closed with thunder or rain storms. Even now as the sun turned the sky a vibrant mix of scarlet, orange, and gold, the cooling sea breeze had the scent of rain upon it. Barbossa could feel it in his shoulder; a storm tonight was imminent.

The _Black Pearl _shifted positions as night fell over Standish, her broadside now able to fire at any position in the town. The light of day gone, the silhouette of the _Pearl_ was gradually lost in the dark. The eerie fog spread a thin sheet of mist over the waters of the harbor as if lessened in respect to the gathering storm. Barbossa, standing at the top of the stairs to the quarterdeck, took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could hear it. At first a soft, erratic patter of drops across the water and then into a dull, steady roar. The drops broke the surface of the mist but did not eradicate it. A baritone rumble of thunder snarled across the skies. "Isaak!" The bo'sun looked up from the main deck. "Let 'em know we're here!" Louder even than the thunder, the snap-boom of the cannons cut through the rain. The flashes of light at the barrels were the only indicators that a ship was even there.

Like a chain reaction, lights were coming on in Standish, the local militia aroused by the firing. Barbossa was down the stairs in a flash. "Landin' party, to me!" The long boats were lowered into the water and the cannons kept up their barrage, now turning a few guns upon the ships close by. A fire was breaking out on shore just as the howling landing party with Barbossa at the head touched their boats into the sand. The captain directed small groups of men to different places and then, with a group of about a dozen other pirates, headed towards the top of the hill for Tawny and Meyer.

There was a man waiting for them there. He seemed to take up at least a third of the narrow street himself. He wasn't fat; just huge. The man was aiming a large gun, an oversized blunderbuss, from his hip. "Have at ya, ye mangy, lily-livered dogs!" came the man's bellowing voice. Before Barbossa could wonder why a pub owner had a pirate's weapon, the man fired. He managed to duck most of the first shot but several of the pellets went right through his hat to strike the pirate behind him. By now, the man had tossed away his blunderbuss and was raising a sword and charging at Barbossa. It was an intimidating sight and the rain and thunder weren't helping.

Pushing any sort of human fear out of his mind, Barbossa ducked under the first swing, tripped the man and sent him over his back. Belying his large size, the man was back on his feet in an instant and fighting the pirates that came yelling up to meet him. Two of them weaved around the battle and Barbossa waved them to the pub. "If ye find it, bring it t' me!" Filled with his purpose, Barbossa then made for the surgeon's. There were no lights on in the building; the man was probably asleep or something. The lock broke with barely a kick and Barbossa stepped in, dripping wet and pistol raised. But, before he could even look around, a shot to his right nearly deafened him and sent a ball of lead into his side. Instinct threw his arm around and made his finger squeeze the trigger at the unidentified person who shot him.

The person ducked just as the pistol went off and shot a mirror hanging on the wall. The tinkle of glass faced off with the metallic clash of swords. Barbossa found himself parrying swift and calculated blows. This wasn't right. The boy had said that the only people occupying the building were the surgeon and his apprentice. No guards. And if this wasn't a guard of some sort, then who was it?

A brilliant flash of lightning lit up the room, immediately followed by a gargantuan clap of thunder. For a brief moment, Barbossa got a glimpse of his opponent. The determined visage of an older fellow with grey streaked hair was visible and then gone in the dark that followed the light. According to the boy's description, this was the surgeon! The lightning quick blows and parries went on for several minutes as they moved around the room. When the surgeon tripped backwards against the stairs, Barbossa brought down his blade only to have it stopped just before cleaving the surgeon in two. Another flash of lightning revealed the surgeon's snarling face, his own blade keeping Barbossa's from striking the killing blow. For a tense moment, it seemed as if the surgeon's grasp would slip but slowly, he managed to inch Barbossa's sword away from him.

The surgeon's foot flashed out to catch him on the knee. With a snarl, Barbossa felt his leg buckle and he toppled forward, just barely managing to avoid impaling himself of the other's sword even though it wouldn't have mattered. Before he could regain his footing, the surgeon was surging up the stairs. Barbossa scrambled after him, a fire in his eyes. They met again at the top of the stairs, blows and parries like silver blurs they moved so fast. Where had this man learned to fight? Barbossa asked himself. He was too good for a surgeon, too good for a civilian. And these moves, they mirrored his own almost perfectly. It was then he realized that he'd seen this man fight before, had fought against him before. But who was it?

It was on pure coincidence that they executed the same move, a powerful slash from left to right, at the exact same time. The blades met head on and rebounded violently with as much force, if not more. Another streak of lightning lit up the room and for a split second, their eyes met. Both seemed to register some sort of familiarity but by then, the mind was much farther ahead than the eye. The surgeon's blade pierced Barbossa's gut a millisecond before Barbossa's pierced his. Their eyes locked again and Barbossa knew who he just stabbed. "Kipper!" he exclaimed, barely managing to catch the man before he fell.

"Taught ye well…didn't I?" Kipp Toolles said through clenched teeth as Barbossa lowered him to the floor to prop him up against a wall. "For all yer skill, ye still can't stab to kill rightly. Barely hit any sort of vitals."

"I s'ppose that's the only reason yer alive then, ain't it?" Barbossa replied, not sure if he meant it jokingly or seriously. It was unsettling to find Kipper here. "What are ye doin' here, Kipp? Last I seen ye, ye were a pirate."

Kipper laughed but winced afterwards. "I could ask…the same o' you. Last I knew, you were dead."

"Ah, right. The storm." Absently, Barbossa's hand went to his shoulder. His former crewmate had aged and frankly, it disturbed him. It had been a long time since Barbossa thought about age. If he remembered correctly, he was somewhere near forty. That was even more unsettling. "If yer here, then Abraham Meyer is…"

"Aye. Captain Meyer, owner of the Flute N' Rum." Kipper was silent a moment, his eyes closed in pain. He surprised Barbossa by suddenly seizing his forearm in a vice-like grip. "Hector, it's a shame this is the last time we'll meet."

"What? No, ye said yerself I hadn't hit anythin' vital."

Kipper smiled grimly, a bead of blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. "Never mind about me. Look, Teller wanted to give ye somethin'. Ye were too young at the time to receive it when he died." He gestured weakly to the room down the hall. "There. In that…roll-top desk. Top right drawer."

"Kipp-"

"Go!" Barbossa got to his feet and hastily jogged to the room. His prideful nature kept reminding him that Kipper was ordering him about like a cabin boy but he quickly gave pride a slap in the face and told it to shut up. The desk was to the left as he entered the room Robert had been observing from earlier that day. He rounded the desk but the sight of the apprentice hiding behind it made him stop.

"Don't hurt me!" he whimpered, hiding his head under his arms. Barbossa rolled his eyes and merely hauled the lad out of the way, tossing him roughly on the floor. He easily spotted the top right drawer and pulled it open. Inside was a little wooden box. Without thinking, he grabbed the thing and turned to leave. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled once more, the light glinting suddenly off gold. Barbossa halted, gaze snapping to the surface of the desk. There, sitting on top of a stack of papers covered in Kipper's neat, looping handwriting, was the piece of Aztec gold. Like a man dying of thirst grabbing for water, Barbossa snatched the coin from the papers and whirled out of the room.

Kipper was in the process of sitting up a little more, gasping in pain. Barbossa kneeled next to him and held up the box. "Open…it." He did so. Inside, there was nothing more than a little wooden sphere.

"What the…?" Barbossa picked up the sphere with his index finger and thumb, a confused expression on his face. "What is it?" Kipper gestured to the underside of the sphere with trembling fingers.

"Wooden eye." Barbossa turned it over to find a faux pupil and iris carved and painted into the wood. "Also known as one of the pieces of eight."

"_What_!" Barbossa was almost floored. In his hand was one of the pieces of eight, the calling card of a Pirate Lord. There nine other Pirate Lords, each in command of their own sea.

"Aye…That one…was handed down to Teller…when the original lord died. He wanted…to give it to you."

"Why?"

Kipper grinned weakly. "Who knows? Ben never…talked of it much. Just made me…keep it for ya when ya came into yer own."

Firmly shaking his head, Barbossa placed the eye back in the box. "I can't take this."

"You must!" Kipper seized his arm again. "There's no one else. Teller named only you …and the Code establishes that …it goes only to the one named." Here, the former pirate shook his head. "No one else."

Barbossa opened his mouth to speak when Robert's voice interrupted him. The apprentice was standing at the end of the hallway. "You're that captain! The cursed captain of the Black Pearl!" he cried, pointing wildly. He was confused at first but when Kipper too looked closer at him, he pawed slightly at him. The sword was still sticking out of him.

"It's real," Kipper hissed, eyes wide in amazement. Barbossa heaved a weary sigh. He gained more swords that way, getting one whenever an opponent ran him through and lost it between ribs or something. With a roll of his eyes, he nonchalantly pulled it out and set it on the floor.

"Aye." Kipper took a breath to speak but his eyelids fluttered sporadically. His other hand snagged Barbossa by the front of his shirt, pulling him closer. Barbossa could hear the breath rattling in his lungs. Timidly, Robert came closer, his expression on of concern for his master.

"The Cuh…Caspian Sea. Yer lord of it now." Kipper's voice was strained and Barbossa had to stretch to understand him over the pouring of the rain. He pulled a quizzical face.

"The Caspian Sea? I've never even 'eard of it."

"Neither did Teller," Kipper replied with a weak smile. "Ye'll take care of it…" The surgeon's voice faded to a hiss. Barbossa actually watched the light go out of his eyes. The grip on his shirt and forearm loosened and Kipper's hands fell to his sides. Kipp P. Toolles was dead.

"Kipp…" Gingerly, Barbossa removed Kipper's glasses and closed his eyes. Beside him, Robert made a gulping noise. He could see the apprentice trying to keep his composure but losing fast. Inwardly, he felt like he could do the same but tears were only a memory. In spite of this, he actually felt…partly human. A small part of him almost reached out to touch it. Immediately, he felt the dark-induced side of him repell this thought with a mental snarl as if it burned him. With only a curl of the lip, Barbossa stood, pulled his sword from Kipper's body, and left.

--

Outside, his crewmembers were having a hard time trying to deal with the large man. By then, the two that had gone into the pub had come back out, unsuccessful in their search. Barbossa didn't even break his stride as he stepped out into the rain and into the melee. The pirates backed away as soon as he did. Their opponent fixed a furious gaze on Barbossa and swung his sword like an axe at his head. Ducking easily under the wild swing, Barbossa seized the large man by the front of his shirt and somehow managed to shake him roughly. "Meyer, enough!"

The use of his name pulled Meyer, former captain of the _Kracken_, out of his berserker-like rage. Breathing heavily, his eyes fixed on the smaller man before him, mainly the hat he wore. "Barbossa?" he asked breathlessly. Up close, Barbossa could see how Meyer had aged as well.

"Aye," he said with a rueful expression. "Go back to yer pub. We 'ave no quarrel with ye." His eyes ablaze even in the dark, he released Meyer with a shove. "Get back to the ship, the lot of ye," he snapped, turning his gaze upon the pirates. They moved without hesitation, scrambling back down the hill towards the harbor.

"So it's you then." Barbossa glanced back to Meyer. He couldn't tell if the man was happy or not to see him.

"If ye mean tha' Hell hound what's been in the papers often of late, then, aye. It's me." His tone a cross of dry sarcasm and smugness.

"Ye never lose yer tongue, do ye?"

"Only if ye say so." Their eyes met through the rain, both their expressions unreadable. Meyer seemed to understand what happened after Barbossa was washed overboard even if he didn't say anything. Finally, Barbossa felt his eyebrows turn up slightly.

"Kipper's dead. Don't ask by whose hand." Meyer's broad shoulders fell slightly at this, his gaze almost pitying. "I didn't know."

"He gave it to ya?"

"The piece of eight? Aye."

Meyer nodded, one corner of mouth turning up in an impromptu smile. "Ye got what ye wanted, Barbossa. Yer name feared, a crew of yer own, and now…yer a lord." Barbossa wouldn't dare disagree with him. A smirk of his own creased his features. And he would never forget the sight of his former captain bowing to him in the rain, an ultimate triumph in light of all the death.

* * *

-Helena-

7 ½ years ADC

A strange, thick fog blanketed the predawn waters. Unnatural, it sent shivers up one's spine and hung just as oppressively over the spirit as it did the sea. A lone ship ventured boldly through this fog. And from afar, it was an all too familiar scene. It had to have been the hundredth time in the past seven years they'd come upon a target that was alone in open water. Somewhere on that ship, a brig-sloop that seemed to be more a show of wealth than a ship, was an Aztec medallion. "Douse th' lamps," a lilting, commanding voice ordered. Like a wind had passed over the oil lanterns hanging in various places, the lights went out and left the captain and crew of the _Black Pearl_ in a hazy darkness. They followed the other ship like a silent, stalking shadow, the hiss of the waves against the keel barely a whisper on the thick air. A waning half moon, barely visible over the mists, shone thinly on the water in preparation for the sun come up in her blazing glory over the horizon. In the case of a sailor, dark foggy waters in the wee hours of the morning were waters difficult to navigate. But, in the case of the crew of the _Black Pearl_, the weak light was a like a blessing.

Barbossa held his hand out before him, marveling at the light playing on his digits. It gave his hand an almost surreal quality; not quite transformed but not exactly solid flesh and blood either, bones visible at certain angles and not at others. But what was most settling was the fact that that damnable beast wouldn't try to take him over this morning. No, Barbossa was firmly in control over whatever inner demons had settled in with the curse. However, this wasn't stopping him from being the reputed cut-throat monster people told legends about. Without warning, Jack the monkey dropped down from the rigging onto Barbossa's shoulder. The pale moonlight toyed with his fur, giving him an almost see-through appearance and reflecting in his large eyes. Barbossa let a hand drift up to scratch him under the chin. "Isaak." He barely had to speak before the dark, imposing presence of the bo'sun was behind him. "Bring me Webster."

"Aye, sah." In the past, they often used traditional tactics on their prey; hit and run or surprise attacks. But, having been at sea for so long was forcing them to come up with more creative ideas. More often than not, Barbossa even went on with a boarding or raiding part just to have something to do. This morning was Friday and on Fridays, one of the crew members got to choose how to dispose of their target.

The crew had gathered on deck and was anxiously waiting to find out who got to choose this time. They groaned in disappointment when Isaak wordlessly pulled Webster out from the ranks. Webster was rather insane. His beady eyes, so light a blue they were almost white, were always darting around as if expecting something to lunge at him. Dirty blonde dreadlocks hid most of his forehead and eyebrows, only adding to his half-there expression. The man was twitching excitedly when Isaak brought him up onto the quarterdeck to Barbossa, who threw an arm roughly over the little man's shoulders. Jack made a noise of disgust and hopped down to the deck to make for a railing to perch on. He wasn't very fond of Webster. "Ye don't like them, d'ye?" Barbossa asked Webster, an empty smile pulling at his lips. The pirate shook his head vigorously. "Good. Now, how are we t' seize this ship?"

Webster blanked out for a second as he took the time to register the question. Gradually, he came slowly back to life, giving off the impression he was going to explode. Barbossa leaned away from him a little, not quite sure how this was going to turn out. Webster really must have been thinking about it. The crazy pirate inhaled sharply through his nose and emitted an amazingly loud, "_BOOM!_" The entire ship seemed to jump in surprise. Webster was in the process of repeating but Barbossa hastily clapped a hand over his mouth before he could do so. His gaze flashed out to the other ship, looking for any sign they were altering course, any sign that they'd heard the outburst. He didn't breathe for a full thirty seconds. Their target was unaware.

"Fool half-wit," Barbossa hissed, releasing Webster. The man pouted indignantly at the rough treatment but was promptly ignored. As monosyllabic as Webster was, it often wasn't difficult to figure out what it was he wanted. The 'boom' indicated some sort of explosion. Barbossa was positive it had nothing to do with the cannons. They almost always used the cannons. And from previous experiences, he knew that Webster was a bit of a pyromaniac. "Ready a boardin' party!" Barbossa ordered.

--

The gold writing on the stern of the sloop read _Kingfisher_ and a British flag fluttered limply in the breeze. It was clearly the ship of an aristocrat from the gold molding that covered a large percentage of the vessel. A thing almost entirely for show with a sparse armament of barely sixteen guns. Barbossa almost felt bad for swooping down upon her like a bird of prey. Almost. With the fogs of the curse hiding them, the appearance of the _Black Pearl_ suddenly next to them certainly surprised the few men up on deck on the _Kingfisher_. Barbossa chuckled with a grin and fondly patted the railing he stood next to. Under him, the _Pearl_ executed these unseen approaches like it was an art form. If ever asked if he regretted marooning Jack Sparrow and taking her for himself, Barbossa would answer quite readily: _Never. _

But the appearance of the _Pearl_ was not nearly as frightening as the show the pirates put on. Yelling and howling like demons, they swung over onto the _Kingfisher _with barely any warning. The weak moonlight also gave them the appearance of being partly translucent and that was disturbing by all accounts. Barbossa watched them flood across the deck, taking out the various sailors that were awake and moving about. He paid particular attention to Webster, Twigg, and Koehler, who dodged down into the holds for the powder magazine. "Beware return fire," he called out, remembering that, while the _Kingfisher _wasn't exactly a man-of-war, she did have some cannons. Isaak's brassy voice sent several pirates down to the gun deck to pop open a few cannon ports. But, if things went right, they would overwhelm the other crew and keep them from running out the guns.

Idly, Barbossa pulled his pistol from his belt to check the powder. Putting it on half cock, he meandered down from the quarterdeck to find a rope to swing over on. He hadn't gotten the chance to shoot something in a while so, why not join in at his leisure? "You goin', captain?" Isaak queried from somewhere behind him.

"Aye. Keep things in order 'till I return," Barbossa replied without turning, seizing a rope as it swung lazily back to the _Pearl_.

"Aye, sah."

Pulling twice on the rope to make sure it was secure, Barbossa stepped up on to the railing and, gripping the rope tightly, he stepped off. For a brief second, he seemed to plummet a few feet and then, as the rope stretched to its length and bottomed out, he floated back up level with the _Kingfisher_'s deck. As if he was stepping off a carriage, Barbossa alighted upon the foreign deck almost elegantly. Stepping onto the deck of the _Kingfisher_ was like stepping into a different country. Barbossa balanced experimentally on the balls of his feet. The movement of the unfamiliar deck was amazingly unlike the _Pearl_. The wood even felt different. Trying to keep from pulling a face, he cast a look around.

All around him, people's lives were being snuffed out. Well, at least those that tried to stand in their way. Still seeming as if he was taking a walk in the park, Barbossa let his mind wander. _Now…were I a cursed piece of Aztec gold, where would I hide? _Something prompted him to walk towards cabin. It was logical to assume the captain kept some sort of coffer and wouldn't pass up something as valuable as a piece of Aztec gold. Nothing happened for quite a long moment. So much so, the man who tried to behead him actually would have gone unnoticed if they silly fool hadn't been bellowing some sort of medieval war cry.

Barbossa ducked just as the silver flash of a blade flew by overhead, clipping off the end of one the feathers on his hat. It was the ultimate insult. He caught the bit that had been rudely chopped off as it floated to the deck and spun around with a snarl to see who had the audacity to do such a thing, his own sword now drawn. "_En_ _guard_, pirate," challenged the offender. Before him stood a man that should have never been carrying any sort of weapon. The man was almost a half foot shorter than Barbossa and was garbed in the immaculate wardrobe of an English aristocrat. Everything he wore screamed high society, even down to the last hand-melted coat button. As it were, the sword was very out of place on his person. He wouldn't even be a challenge.

"I take it yer the proprietor of this 'ere ship?" Barbossa said, clearly not impressed by the man's bravado.

"Yes; Lord Nathaniel Hawkins," the man replied readily with a cocky smirk. "And I plan to get rid of any who try to loot her." The blade of his sword flicked up to hover under Barbossa's chin. "Especially pirates."

Barbossa found himself laughing. This snob was far too overconfident. Hawkins should have been sipping tea at some party in England, not aboard a ship in the Caribbean. Still laughing, he whipped up his sword to bat away the others, the metallic snarl of the blades sheering off one another quite audible even with all the noise around them. "Then be prepared t' die fer 'er," the pirate declared.

Had Barbossa been a different pirate, Hawkins would have had a much better chance of defeating him. But as Barbossa had assumed, it only took him maybe thirty seconds to get the man with his back to the cabin window and disarm him. Barbossa smiled almost apologetically before cackling and punching his sword through Hawkins's chest. The sword tip collided with the glass of the window and Barbossa could feel the glass give a little. He jerked his sword back out and Hawkins fell lifeless to the deck with a soft moan. "Silly fool," Barbossa said with a sigh, wiping his bloody blade on the dead man's jacket. He moved as if to turn away from the cabin when he noticed something in the window; a face. The face belonged to a young girl. The girl's expression was one of horror as she beheld the blood on the window and the dead man before it. And then, almost as soon as the face had appeared, it was gone. Barbossa inhaled sharply. _Around the girl's neck was the gold!_

He flew over to the cabin door and, finding it locked, promptly shot the handle off and kicked in the door. Inside it was dark as if nobody was in there. Not even a candle was lit; but, as he glanced at one of them, Barbossa could see blue smoke swirling from the recently extinguished wick. And there was a throbbing in his ears that he knew was from being in close proximity of the gold. Returning his sword to its place at his hip, he moved slowly forward, his boots making no sound on the plush rug and his eyes roving over every shadow. Nothing. At least, not until he began rounding the large oak desk near the back of the cabin.

How he managed to hear the girl gasp softly apart from the noise going on out on deck he would never know. In one fluid movement, he whipped out his pistol, cocked it, bent at the knees, and pulled the girl out from under the desk by one arm. A pair of flashing blue eyes met his, both daring and afraid. "Release me, scum!" she blurted out, slapping him. Unfortunately for her, the blow would not be felt and its sting lost on Barbossa. But, her audacity somewhat insulted him.

"From where I'm standin', yer not in a position t' be makin' such orders," he said in a low voice, jamming the muzzle of the pistol under her chin. His other hand released its vice-like grip on her arm and lifted the medallion from her neck.

"You killed him," she growled through clenched teeth.

"That _lordly_ fellow outside? Aye, I did. Ye have somethin' t' say 'bout it?"

"Bastard," she spat. Barbossa resisted the urge to backhand her. Hi ugly sneer matched her own as he leaned closer to her, not quite caring that a girl knew such language.

"Missy, yer lucky I have such a merciful nature." With a jerk, the chain on the medallion broke and Barbossa swiftly transferred it to a pocket.

"Too bad I don't." The cool tip of a blade traced its way up his neck to stop just under his jaw. The voice was level, determined, and…feminine? Without moving the gun off the girl, Barbossa glanced coolly over his shoulder. It was a woman. A strangely familiar woman. However, Barbossa played it off. After all, he didn't really have to fear much as far as dying went.

"And who might you be, m'lady?" he queried, smiling unpleasantly.

"Exactly that," she countered smoothly. "Who's asking?" Barbossa opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the girl. Without warning, she punched him swiftly in the gut, snatched the pistol from his hand, and whirled around to stand beside the woman. While the curse wouldn't let them die, it certainly allowed one's breath to be knocked out. Barbossa fell back against the desk for support, doubled over slightly. That had been unexpected, he admitted inwardly. Looking up, he found himself out-numbered and mostly disarmed, a sword at his neck and a pistol aimed between his eyes. He wasn't sure how immortals got over being shot in the face but he wasn't about to draw his sword and find out. There weren't many obvious similarities but he had a feeling that they were mother and daughter.

"Clever," he said with a slight wheeze, turning to face them. The older woman was smirking but, as he turned to face her, the smirk faded as her eyes alighted on his neck. Barbossa knew what it was she stared at; an amulet shaped somewhat like a Celtic knot. However, he didn't know why.

"Where did you get that?" the woman whispered, now meeting his hooded gaze with a strange mix of hope and despair. Barbossa narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing her for a moment. Yes, she was definitely familiar; the porcelain features, brown auburn hair, her eyes a mixture of hazel and gold. The same face, though fifteen years younger, and a name came to mind but he was afraid to say it.

"What business is it of yers?"

The sword blade lowered slightly. Her expression was fearful. "Because I gave it to my first love."

Barbossa knew his disbelief was as plain as day on his face but his mind had gone completely blank. Vaguely, he could see confusion on the girl's face as she glanced quizzically at her mother. He and the woman stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, each lost in the familiarity of the other's eyes. It was she who broke the silence, her mouth opening and closing several times before she spoke. "He…H-Hector?"

"Elaine. Elaine McCawber." Just saying the name brought to mind only a day's worth of memories, for that was how long they'd known each other before he left her. That had been almost sixteen years ago. His hand strayed absently to the amulet around his neck. Barbossa's mind whirled, assaulted by just about every thought possible in that moment. He heard himself asking what she was doing here, called to mind the last time they had met, and many other things but there was one thought that rang out the loudest. If Elaine was really this girl's mother then …who was the father?

"You know him!" the girl cried incredulously and not with a little bit of horror. Elaine didn't answer immediately and neither she nor Barbossa could have anticipated what happened next. The girl shot him with his own pistol. For a split second, Barbossa fancied he saw the bullet fly from the barrel before it struck him directly over his left eye. The impact knocked him to the ground and for a few panicked moments, all he saw were stars and the color red. Gradually though, his sight came back and he found himself lying facedown on the cabin floor. A few inches away from his face was the bullet, mushroomed out and sitting a small puddle of blood on the rug next to him. Now he longer had to imagine what immortals felt when shot in the head. Trying to uncross his eyes, Barbossa gingerly rose up on his hands and knees. Still alive. Behind him, he heard Elaine and the girl gasp.

"It's not possible," Elaine hissed. The girl was silent.

"Believe it. Yer lookin' at a cursed pirate," Barbossa said ruefully, using the desk to get to his feet. The girl was staring at him, obviously in shock, the pistol trembling in her hands. He leveled his gaze at her and almost simultaneously, the gun fell from her grasp to the floor. She followed suit and fell in a dead faint.

"Oh Hector…" The sword slipped from her fingers. Elaine was at a loss for words, her expression a mixture of pity and concern.

"Now I can say I been shot in the head n' lived," Barbossa muttered, wiping the blood from his forehead nonchalantly away. As customary with the curse, wounds inflicted sealed up almost as soon as they were given. Surprising him, Elaine rushed forward and seized him in an embrace. Unable to feel, Barbossa could only stand there and take what was given.

But the memories would not be ignored. Unbidden, they rose before him, ghosts of the past. Closing his eyes, he could see the port town with a name long forgotten. He could almost smell the salty air. In the harbor was the _Kracken_ during her glory days. And on the salty breeze came the enthralling scent of honeysuckle perfume. It has been said that if there was anything Barbossa could ever find beauty in, it would have to be a ship. That didn't used to be true. The smiling dark-haired girl in the market place had spelled a certain doom for the pirate Barbossa but, in a sense, set free the man Hector Haywood. It had been a day and night of firsts for the both of them. And though he felt nothing now, Barbossa could remember well the feeling of love at first sight. It was a pale substitute. Almost timidly, he returned the embrace.

"I was so afraid, so certain that you were dead," Elaine said softly, her eyes on the floor. "I remember seeing the Kracken about a year after you left and you weren't on it. I feared the worst and Kipper confirmed it for me. They said you'd been lost to a storm. I couldn't forget you."

"I had been but some otherworldly power wanted me alive and washed me ashore," he replied. He didn't want to admit to not being as faithful in thinking of her as she had of him. As he spoke, Barbossa let his gaze drift to the fallen figure of the girl. Memory was making him fearful again. She seemed to be around fifteen, the same amount of time… "Who is she?" he asked. Elaine looked up at and turned in his arms to look at the girl.

"My daughter. Helena."

"By that Hawkins?" Elaine winced, not failing to notice the tinge of scorn in his voice.

"One could say I sort of used him. When I met him, I'd been working as a house maid. Before I knew it, he asked me to marry him. It was out of necessity. Helena was four and I couldn't support her on my own." She shot him a short, wary glance. "No, she's no daughter of Nathaniel Hawkins." A pause. "She's yours."

Barbossa was tight-lipped for a moment, his eyes narrowing unfathomably for barely a second. "Aye," he said somewhat flatly. "I can see who she takes after. No child o' that stuck up weevil would've stood up t' me like that." As of the moment, Barbossa wasn't sure what he was thinking. It was more like a mix of everything and nothing at the same time.

"You should come back to England with us, Hector. We could be a family." Those words were the figurative bucket of cold water to the drunkard. The sound of the battle still going on outside, the mental prodding from the medallion, the sight of men dying all brought Barbossa back down to Earth. It had to have been only a few minutes yet the entire scene felt like it took eternity. Had Webster and the other two – "Elaine, ye need t' get off this ship." He released her and gently pulled her arms from around him.

"What?"

"The Kingfisher is minutes from bein' blown t' smithereens. Me crew's plannin' on setting a fuse to the powder magazine."

"But all the sailors! What about them?" Her expression went from caring to horrified. She gestured to the door. "You can't-"

"By the powers, I sure as the tide can." The sharp tone of his voice made her jump. Barbossa seized her shoulders firmly. "Elaine…it's best ye give up on me. I'm a pirate and a cursed monster. I can't love. I can't feel. I can't afford to. Blast it all, I can't even eat. As long I have this duty," he pulled the gold from his pocket and held it up so she could see it, "I can't go with you." Letting go of her shoulders, Barbossa strode swiftly over to the large windows in the back of the cabin and threw them open. He then retrieved his pistol from the floor and patted Helena on the cheek to bring her around. "C'mon, girl, snap out of it."

"Hector, I don't understand." Elaine was there beside him.

"There's no time t' explain," he replied, hauling his slowly reviving daughter to her feet. "Can ye swim?" This he demanded of Helena.

"Wha-? Swim? Yes, I can." She didn't seem to truly realize that this was the same man she shot a few minutes ago.

"Good." Without warning, Barbossa picked her up, turned to the window, and promptly tossed her out. This gave her little time to react and she hit the ocean with a splash only a second after being thrown out. It may have been rough treatment but Barbossa wasn't concerned. "Elaine." He held out his hand to her. For a long moment, she stared at him, her eyes and face unreadable. She finally placed her hand in his but before she would allow him to pull her over to the window, she pulled him to her first.

"Promise me." Her voice was slightly strained, caught between anger and emotion. "Promise you'll find me again."

"Ye know I can't make any promises."

"Just do it. I'll wait for you."

"For how long?"

"However long it takes."

She planted a quick but fervent kiss on his lips before jumping out of the window after Helena. With the smell of honeysuckle still in his nose and the gold clutched in one hand, Barbossa didn't wait for the splash. He pivoted on one heel and made for the door. At about the time he reached the frame, Twigg and Koehler appeared there as well. "Is it ready?" Barbossa demanded. He showed absolutely no sign of what went on in the cabin.

"Sir, yer head…"

"It's fine. _Is it ready_?"

"The fuse is lit, cap'n." Impromptu, Webster popped up between them.

"'Alf a minute!" he shrieked before zipping away again.

"Then it's done. We got what we came fer." Barbossa flashed the coin and parted the two at the door, stepping on deck. "All hands, fall back or it's Davy Jones' locker fer ye!" Finishing off opponents if they had them, the pirates scurried back to the _Black Pearl_, leaving the sailors of the _Kingfisher_ somewhat bewildered. As he jogged for a rope to swing across, Barbossa noticed the absence of long boat on deck. "Where are their long boats?" he asked aloud.

"We sent 'em over th' side. These blokes won't be needin' where they be headed," Twigg declared, seizing a rope as well.

"Very well." This time, Barbossa had to jump a little to get a good swing going. The deck of the _Kingfisher_ was about a foot shorter than the _Pearl_. Isaak was shouting orders and pirates were scrambling for the rigging and releasing the sails. Finished with her prey, the _Black Pearl_ turned away from the _Kingfisher_ and made off with a southerly wind in her sails. Barbossa took the stairs two at a time to get to the quarterdeck in time to get a good look at the scene before it erupted. He managed to keep his expression flat when he saw no figures moving the water. At a chain length away, the scurrying crew paused to watch. Webster was excitedly counting down the seconds.

By now, the crew of the _Kingfisher_ had become aware of the bomb about to explode and was hastily abandoning ship by diving over the sides. They wouldn't move fast enough. A crack like thunder split the air for a moment followed almost instantaneously by the splitting of timber and the roar of flames. The pirates threw out a cheer as the last bits of flaming canvas and debris smacked into the water, their dark deed done. Barbossa's brow furrowed as he looked over the water and he couldn't help but wonder if they made it. "Sah."

Isaak appeared beside him and pointed. "Wot of dat?" His breath catching in his throat, Barbossa followed the bo'sun's arm to spy the silhouette of an occupied long boat making its way furiously from the wreckage.

"Leave 'em. It'd be a waste o' powder." Barbossa let out the breath he'd been holding and turned a renewed smirk upon Isaak. "Let 'em spread the word." Let them live, he added finally to himself. The wraith of the moon had finally descended, giving way to the first rays of daylight as the golden sun broke over the horizon and cast the first rays of the day over the mist.

--

AN: Well, as it turns out, four drabbles turned into five and now I think I have the count at six with the sixth still in the works. Well, you know, one listens to different music during a writer's block and one gets different inspiration and ideas. Incredibly sorry for the horrible length, even worse than the last. For this little batch, I felt I needed to bring in Barbossa's truly dark side. They didn't call him 'the man so evil, Hell itself spat him back out' for nothing. Some sort of explanation was needed since finding out he was also a Pirate Lord, which was amazing. Just having the Bootstrap irony wasn't enough, I'm afraid, though I disliked killing poor Kipper. It was just how the story wrote itself. And on the final one, one never sees anything other than Will and Elizabeth offspring or Jack offspring fics. I also thought it'd be interesting if Barbossa did have a love once.

The port town of Standish does not exist, obviously. I came up with it for the sole purpose of 'Old Acquaintances.' I'm not sure I like the somber tone of this group but it does serve as a reminder that Barbossa's cursed years weren't all fun and looting.

Next Chapter: The Cursed Years come to a close with the discovery that the crew of the _Black Pearl_ weren't the only pirates ever to suffer the curse of the Isle de Muerta.


	10. The Final Piece

_Recorder's Notes – _

_This is the last event able to be catalogued for, not long after this, Hector Barbossa was shot and killed once the curse was lifted. The crew of the _Black Pearl_ was captured on board the H.M.S _Dauntless_ and sentenced to death by hanging one week later. It is a shame. Upon meeting Hector Barbossa, I was intrigued by him. I have decided to pursue his tale and perhaps uncover more about this man than what has and what will be said about him. There has to be more. _

_-_Richard Harvey, recorder

* * *

-The Curse of the _Monstro_- 

10 years ADC

Tortuga, in wake of the cleansing of Port Royal, was now called the pirate and buccaneer capital of the Caribbean. Eight years ago, Thomas Modyford, having died suddenly of some sort of sickness, was replaced by a moral, proper man named Weatherby Swann. With this man came an ambitious young lieutenant in the Royal Navy. This man rose through the ranks like a shark through a school of fish, all the while making his intentions known – to efficiently hunt down pirates and eradicate them from the surrounding waters. The pirate community migrated their unwholesome activities to Tortuga as the crackdown on general lawlessness commenced. This man, one James Norrington, was to become the scourge of piracy in the eastern Caribbean. As a captain, his reputation was potent enough to drop an entire pub silent just at the mention of his name. It was his ultimate triumph to be promoted to the rank of commodore at only thirty-two. Pirates wept for their species.

However, there was one major thorn in the side of naval officers of Port Royal. A pesky, black, little pirate ship called the _Black Pearl_. They didn't know if it truly existed but they had heard the blood-chilling legend behind it and the evidence from the hundreds of attacks was overwhelming. Even now, with the threat of the navy, the ship appeared almost at random, seemingly attacking anything that crossed its path and leaving no survivors. There were only a handful of people who had lived through an encounter with the cursed crew. Most of those people were now dead, one was rendered mentally unstable, and two were in England. Through this, the navy had nothing to go on to try and stop the _Pearl_. And so, gradually, the disabling of the _Black Pearl_ lost its place at the top of the military docket and eventually fell off the radar.

It wasn't only because the navy couldn't find them. The ferocious activity that consumed the _Pearl_ in the first few years of her bloody reputation had considerably lessened. She became more legend than ship, as did her crew. However, this didn't stop her reputation from pervading the Caribbean. Mothers still got their children inside at night once they warned them that the ghost pirates would come and snatch them up if they didn't.

But, as the _Pearl_'s purpose came closer to being fulfilled, the fewer targets showed themselves. The Aztec coins were becoming scarce. Larger and larger spaces of time went in between pulses. And for the past year, there had been nothing. The _Pearl_'s captain and crew knew that they hadn't found the last piece. They'd counted, recounted, and recounted once more and every time they came up with the most frustrating number in the history of man: 881. It had no square root, it could only be divided by the number 1, and it was one away from the goal of 882. Their last raid had been born out of extreme boredom and restlessness. Alas, the one thing holding Barbossa and his cut throats from being able to truly live was the last Aztec coin.

If anything, Tortuga grew even rowdier with the influx of crewless pirates. Nobody seemed to complain. The streets were full of brawling individuals, one poor fellow being repeatedly dunked into the well, and a general devil-may-care attitude permeated the rum-soaked atmosphere. It was no different inside the pubs and taverns either. Smoke clogged most of the air, the rest of it being occupied by the strong stench of stale drink and human body odor. And the pirates were happy. The navy dogs couldn't penetrate the harbor and they were virtually untouchable.

There was one man who wasn't exactly jumping up to join the gleeful melee that most of the pub was involved in. He sat by himself at a table in an inconspicuous corner, his attention not on the fight. An empty tankard sat before him and he was expertly flicking worn out playing cards into it. This man, though unrecognizable now in his form of flesh as the demon of legend, was Hector Barbossa, captain of the _Black Pearl_. His expression, mostly bored, was slightly unreadable. His hooded eyes were fixed on the tankard, one hand steadily tossing cards into it. But, if one looked close enough, they could see the turmoil behind the blue eyes.

Barbossa did not appear to be outwardly thinking but inwardly, his mind was working feverishly, turning over every memory, every pulse of the curse. It had to be there, the location of the last coin, catalogued away in all the other memories that he held. He let a short sigh through his nose and his craggy brow furrowed slightly but his card tossing never missed a beat. He was angry. He was frustrated. But most of all, he was weary. A decade of his life was gone, devoted to ending the curse. It had made a slave of him and he had had no more control over this than a real slave. This was the cause of most of his frustration. He had spent a long time trying to change his fate but he was still kept from living his own life.

The cards kept falling into the tankard. His pace only halted when he came to the last card in his hand – the queen of diamonds. For a long moment, he stared at the card. The condescending, half-lidded gaze of the cartoon queen gazed evenly back. With a purse of the lips, he made to throw the card when, suddenly, it came to him. His hand froze in mid-toss. About two years into the curse at the same time Lieutenant Norrington made his debut in the Caribbean, the crew of the _Pearl_ had responded to the call of the gold. It led them to a small merchant vessel making its way across the Atlantic from England. Oh, what was the name…? The _Princess_. Opening fire was easy enough. Repeated broadsides tore into the _Princess_ and had her listing in the water only after a quarter of an hour. For the rest of the hour, the crew searched the ship for the gold. Barbossa stayed aboard the _Black Pearl_ for the battle but, when they couldn't find anything, he was called over.

By then, strangely, the pulse was gone. The throbbing in his ears had ceased completely. Even the rest of the crew noticed this. But, in spite of their situation, Barbossa had the _Princess_'s powder magazine ignited. It was the favorite thing to do. It insured that anything alive became quite the opposite. Not a minute after the _Princess_'s destruction, another ship appeared. At first, Barbossa thought that maybe they'd gotten the wrong ship. But he then spotted the multiple levels of guns and immediately recognized the navy's pet lion, the H.M.S. _Dauntless_. He knew that, even with the fog and the curse on their side, the _Black Pearl_ didn't have much of a chance against the _Dauntless_. While, he didn't like it, he ordered them to make for the south and beat a hasty retreat from the area.

That was it. The missing piece was somehow tied in with that event. …Now what? Brow furrowing ever more deeply, Barbossa pulled the tankard to him and took out the cards to start over again. He was about a fourth of the way through the deck again when someone interrupted his thought process. "Mind if I join ye?"

Barbossa looked up to find a man standing across the table from him. There was a tinge of an accent to his gravely voice. He was an older fellow, his hair long since grey. He wore a patch over one eye but the other was a slate color and he seemed to see out of it just fine. His clothing had seen far better days, as had the severely notched cutlass and battered pistol at his holey belt. His one eye was looking at Barbossa expectantly, a friendly smile revealing what had to be the only dozen teeth left in his head. "Don't see why not," Barbossa replied evenly, returning to throwing the cards.

"Much 'bliged," the geezer replied, sliding into a seat and plunking a frothy pint before him. For a while, neither of them spoke but Barbossa glanced up periodically at the man. The fellow was a bit of a quandary. Even when not recognized as captain of the _Black Pearl_, most men seemed to avoid him. Barbossa was rather proud of this and so he frowned slightly as he took note of this man's fearlessness.

"So…ye from 'round here?" he queried, eyes turning back to his cards.

"Nay. I hale from West Country, England."

"Ah. Me father was raised there."

"No kiddin'." The pointless banter fell quiet for a moment. The geezer resumed it after casting a quick, scrutinizing glance over him. "Hear 'bout tha' raid a few islands over?"

"Aye." Barbossa couldn't keep a small smirk from his face. That particular looting had been quite fun. "Horrible business, that."

"Aye. The way I sees it, that Black Pearl's been a right thorn in the Caribbean's side."

"That so? How d'ye figure?"

The geezer pulled a long, contrite face. "Hard competition for us mortal pirates, what with the navy breathin' down our necks n' the Pearl stealin' any sort o' prey we comes across."

"True."

"I hear the captain's been t' Hell n' back." The man sniffed lightly, taking a swig from his pint. "Must be a frightful fellow," he concluded, smacking his lips and then wiping the foam from them. Barbossa had to nod slightly at this.

"Aye."

"Only in the moonlight, eh?" There was the briefest pause in Barbossa's card throwing as he glanced up at the man. He was grinning unpleasantly, an unsettling sick light in his one eye. Barbossa's gaze narrowed slightly in suspicion but decided to play it off.

"So ye've heard they're cursed?"

The man's voice was a terrible hiss. "_Cursed by transformations moonlit, compelled by greed, consumed by it_. Aye, I'm intimately familiar wif the curse of the Isle de Muerta."

The verse was hauntingly familiar. The guru Teo on Dominica had recited it to them when he told them how to lift the curse. Barbossa took a second to reply, still throwing cards. "Seems t' be that way," he replied levelly in a reasonable tone.

"And yer not,…Captain?" A card bounced off the rim of the tankard. Barbossa fixed the man with a cold look, usually enough to send a man running. But this man wasn't fazed. His expression was leering but knowing at the same time. And the light of insanity tinged his bloodshot eye. "Ye din' fool me, mate. I knew you was the Black Pearl's cap'n soon's I set eye on ye. I knows a man weary o' not living when I sees 'im."

"Do ye now." There was no hint of question in Barbossa's voice. Who was this dotard trying to fool? "Anythin' else ye happen t' know?" The man leaned back in his chair with a demented chuckle, smiling his gap toothed smile.

"Just enough t' tantalize ye n' t' keep ye comin' back." His voice took on a mocking tone. Barbossa doubted this. "How many have ye found?"

"I'm curious." Barbossa placed down his remaining cards and laid his elbows on the dirty table top. "Why d'ye want t' know?"

"Jus' wonderin'," came the reply. Barbossa sized the man up. He was certainly an odd fellow, reeking of both stale rum and partial insanity. It probably wouldn't hurt to tell him. After all, he didn't seem like the type many people listened to.

"Eight hundred n' eighty-one."

"Oi, almost done are we? Quite a feat only a decade un'ner th' influence." The man stroked his chin, a finger lazily curling the end of his mangy beard. There was an almost awkward silence as the man gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. Barbossa rolled his eyes wearily. For all he claimed to know, this man didn't seem to be very knowledgeable.

"In order for me t' avoid doin' somethin' _yer_ gonna regret later, d'ye mind givin' me an answer that's not vague?" The man jumped slightly as if he had been lifted out of a light doze. He blinked owlishly for a second before answering.

"Jus' makin' a comparison."

"With what?"

"Wiv th' last cursed crew." At the narrow-eyed, quizzical look Barbossa knew he executed, the geezer wheezed a truly amused laugh. "Ah! Ye didn't know tha' ye weren't the only crew?"

"Can't say I did."

"Let me tell ye 'bout it." The pint, now empty, was placed on the table. "Long, _long _'afore yer time, the Caribbean was jus' gettin' settled by the Spanish. The mutts aboard a ship called the Monstro followed 'em out. They'd heard o' the treasure that Hernando Cortez brought back years before n' wanted a taste of it." Here, the man licked his dirty fingers. "So they sailed out. Bein' the reckless fools they was, they was soon lost and, being rightly new to the Caribbean, 'ad no clue where to turn. After three weeks of low supplies n' water, they finally came upon an unfamiliar coast. Most of them went ashore fer food n' a fresh water source."

The look in the man's eye was feverish, as if he was back during that time himself. "They discovered a dead town. There, they found their supplies o' course but they also found somethin' else. A chest, filled to the brink with gold. Aztec gold. With vigor renewed, they sailed from the strange coast and landed on the closest island, one the Spanish called Hispaniola. There they spent all but the last of the strange gold n' went on their merry way. They even found an island to keep the chest it on, later renamed o' course." The man paused, a rueful smirk pulling at his lips. "Me thinks I don't hafta tell ye what happened next."

Barbossa was caught between wanting to listen and having a desire to shoot the geezer. On one side, it was blowing his mind that this man seemed to know so much about the curse. On the other, the mocking, condescending tone the man used was quickly bringing Barbossa to a boiling point. Though it was possible this fellow had years more experience than he, he wasn't about to respect the word of an old man who had a few loose sails flapping in the wind. "Ye don't," he said, unable to keep from sneering slightly.

The man went on as if he had missed the sneer. "It took the crew of the Monstro nearly fifty years to recover all the gold. And after they lifted the curse, they still weren't able to escape. A navy ship followed them, waited, and then abushed 'em. Killed every last man except for th' captain."

"And what did the captain do?"

"Why, he went insane!" the man stated, as if it was as simple as that. "Disappeared into the depths o' pirate society, now merely a line in the book o' history."

As poetic as it sounded, Barbossa was hardly impressed. He had to keep from pulling his pistol and putting the old bird out of his -meaning Barbossa's- misery. "Ye act as if ye know quite a lot about the curse."

This seemed to bring the other alive. Insulted fury lit his eye and he sat up, nostrils flaring. "Act! I do not act! Just whose crew d'ye think lies dead in the Isle de Muerta caverns?"

Now this was somewhat unexpected and registered a blink of surprise from Barbossa. "Ye were the captain o' the Monstro, then."

"Aye." The geezer's voice was now entirely venom. "I was."

"Ah." So that was it. The rest of the story, though the former captain didn't speak of it, could be imagined. Back then, the crew of the _Monstro _had attracted more attention than it wanted without, perhaps, knowing it. It took them years to gather hundreds of coins to lift the curse and, when they could just see the light at the end of the tunnel, the thing came crashing down on them. Even without being killed, the only man left alive would have been left mentally scarred. Only ten years had Barbossa near the end of his rope of tolerance. Fifty was almost unimaginable. It was the shattered remnants of a once-captain that sat before him, a failure and something worse than just an old fool. If anything, this highly motivated Barbossa to find the last medallion. He wasn't about to become that which was in front of him.

"I'm warnin' ye now, whelp!" the man exclaimed, leaping forward to wag a finger under Barbossa's nose. "Even out o' that curse, you ain't safe. Yer gonna end up all alone n' then where we will ye be?" There was a long, icy pause as Barbossa eyed the finger pointed at him, trying to decide if he would like cutting it off with a knife and beating the man with it. Truly, what parts of his blackheart could handle it went out to this man. However, it was obvious that his crew was far more efficient than that of the Monstro's. He was not impressed. Barbossa's eyes, unfeeling and unmoved, flicked up to lock with the former captain's one eye. Purposefully he rose from the table, taking his turn at being condescending.

"I pity ye, mate. A tragedy it was what happened but…we're not as pathetic as ye were."

"Pathetic!" At this, Barbossa placed both hands on the table and he leaned down face to face with the other. There was a terrible light bringing out his eyes as they bored into the old man.

"Yer name weren't whispered in fear at night. Ye don't have a legend after ye. What took ye 'alf a century to do is only takin' us a tenth. I…_we_ are not going to fail as you did."

"You scorn my word and ye insult me, you a wet-behind-the-ears infant compared to meself! I ain't about to take that sittin' down." Barbossa felt a wave of disgust rise up in him as the man rose from his seat. He was clearly insane, this man, to not be backing down. Then again, his mind had been touched by the curse. Of course, he'd have to do something to show this man who was in command. And who was immortal. This entire conversation had been a waste of time in Barbossa's opinion, though the warning was sound enough. The indestructible confidence that steadied his hand led him to ignore the warning like an unruly child spurning a parent. He was one movement from dropping the geezer with a bullet between the eyes when it hit him like an icy wave.

Almost a happy whine, it came at first as if it was excited to be calling again. Then came the pulse, like a revived heart beat. The images of the nightmares rose afresh in Barbossa's mind and he could've sworn he felt his feet trying to edge towards the door in an effort to answer the siren's call of the gold. The captain of the _Monstro_ suddenly fell out of his focus and Barbossa was moving through the crowd without a second thought. Dimly, as if he weren't in his own body, he could hear the man's shouts behind him but it was as if he was being led by something he couldn't possibly tune out. People fell out of his path, fear in their expressions as they beheld the dark, icy demon that was passing through them, a knife through flesh.

Outside, the wind was just beginning to turn in response to the call. Barbossa had to put a firm hand on his hat to keep it from being blown away. That familiar thrill sent hopeful prickles through his limbs. It was still there, the pulsing. The next minute passed in a blur. Later, when he thought back on it, Barbossa remembered breaking into a run towards the docks. The rest of the crew had gotten there before him and he recalled shouting orders through the strange wind to weigh anchor. Like a sour note from a horn, fog was creeping into the harbor on the wind and gathered, a silent maelstrom, around the _Black Pearl_. And then, Barbossa came back into himself.

"What are the headings?" he demanded, roughly pulling Isaak away from the map open on a table on the quarterdeck.

"De wind is pointin' us in de direction of here." The bo'sun's large finger planted on an island. In loopy, cursive handwriting, Barbossa could plainly read the name of the port. Forgetting completely the number of bad experiences tied in with this particular port, Barbossa whirled around to snap more orders.

"Crow that canvas, loose the tops'ls! Make headin's fer Port Royal, Jamaica!"

--

AN: Ah, and the break of the wave into _The Curse of the Black Pearl_. I think I'm actually gonna go watch it after I post this. The next few chapters or so will feature Barbossa's adventures in the Locker and how Tia Dalma brings him back. And after that, who knows? Happy tenth chapter everybody! -throws Pirates confetti-


	11. Once More

AN: Sorry about the horrible, terrible wait. The bottom of my summer fell out and I had things piled on me as soon as it got started. The influx of storms here hasn't been helping either. I feel rotten for taking this long. Again, apologies!

--

-Tales from the End of the World: The Child, the Man, and the Monster-

The Child

He was dead. Shot through the heart. He came alive ultimately to feel his death. And where now was the man so evil, Hell itself spat him back out? Well…Hector Barbossa was in Hell. Or, at least, on the way to it. How else can one describe Davy Jones' Locker as anything but a haunted sort of limbo? Souls who die at sea are kept there, waiting for Jones to come ferry them to the other side. Those few who are sentenced there for failing to pay a debt to Jones or even those sad few who are washed onto the wasteland's shores by chance are forced to endure their worst nightmares for eternity. And though he wasn't forced to endure the worst fate he could bring upon himself, eternity had a fairly bleak outlook for Barbossa.

--

"I feel…cold."

Jack Sparrow standing before him, pistol smoking. Turner on the treasure mound behind him. Elizabeth several yards away. He could distinctly feel the changes of his expression. Upon realizing he could feel again, he almost smiled during the phrase. But, that hope gave way to despair as he easily recognized the sensation of cold, the word passing his lips in a fearful uttering. His half smile faded and he felt himself falling. That was where things grew dark. That was when he died. No life events had passed before his eyes. There was no light of death that called to him. He left the living world with only the image of Jack Sparrow grim, sober, and coldly determined; an uncharacteristically frightening thing in itself…

Barbossa came to at the gentle rocking sensation one gets while riding in a longboat. _A boat_? His eyes opened one at a time and his groggy mind attempted to register the surroundings. First off, he found it was night. No stars dotted the sky and there wasn't even a moon out. Fog blanketed the surface of the water. Secondly, he was sitting straight up, if a bit shakily. _That's odd_, he thought to himself. He was fallen on a mound of treasure the last time he'd been conscious. Thirdly, he was indeed sitting in a longboat. It was a fair sized one with room enough for four people to sit comfortably. There were no oars. Some flickering remnant of competent thought registered that as something annoying and he pulled a face. In the prow of the boat was a light, a weak, sputtering oil lamp suspended on a black iron hanger. Now, of all places, what was he doing in a boat? The thing even seemed to move of its own accord. He leaned a little over the gunnels to look at the water quizzically. It was then he noticed the other boats.

There were hundreds of them, oar-less, light-led boats just like his moving with out any obvious means of motion. It seemed as if there was an entire fleet of them. And he was in the back, the spread of boats stretched out before him. Endless, they seemed, the lights bright even into the dark, curtain of fog that hid the black horizon. In each boat was a person, sometimes two, as was the case of the boat nearest to him. A set of twins, girls, were sitting silently in their little boat, eyes staring ahead. Perhaps they would know what this place was. "Ahoy," he called, waving one hand slightly to get their attention. There was really no need to call out; the silence of this dark place was almost deafening.

The call had no effect on the girls whatsoever. It was as if he wasn't even there. It's as if he was a ghost or something. Barbossa's expression was open-mouthed, brow furrowed thickly over clueless eyes. It was obvious to anyone who spent large amounts of time around Hector Barbossa that something had managed to throw this loathsome, stubborn, highly adept, overly-confident pirate for a loop. And what was this something? Why, it was death.

This concept seemed to strike him as he gazed over the boat-choked water. He looked down, holding his hands out before him. There was a pale, deathly quality to them. An eternal cold had settled into his bones and nipped sharply at his fingers and toes. A shudder, unwelcome and unsettling, passed over him and his gaze turned almost frightened. "I'm dead." As he stared at his hands, the blot of red staining a large amount of the left side of his chest came to light. There, black with clotted and coagulated blood, was a small round bullet hole directly over his heart. More of the red had soaked into his jacket and trailed down his front. The aim was unmistakable; Jack would have been a laughable pirate indeed if he had missed at point blank. The uneasy fright that had clouded his features gave way to a flash of anger at the mere thought of Sparrow. If only he could just get his hands on that conniving little…

But he couldn't. His expression fell mournfully. He, Barbossa, was dead in this limbo and Jack was alive on earth. It was only his luck. Heaving a sigh, he cast a rueful eye over the dark waters. It was safe to assume he would become as ghoul like as these other poor souls. All that was left was to wait. "It's a sorry state of affairs ye've gotten us into." The sudden voice spun Barbossa a startled 180 degrees around in his seat. He looked down next to him and found someone sitting there on his right.

There, sitting next to him, was a boy. Clad in only a worn white shirt and a pair of knickers that were too short, his scrawny frame seemed to consist only of bone, skin, and wire. Dirt or soot capped his elbows, clouded his features. There were light shades of ginger in his shaggy mop of brownish hair. His feet were dirty and bare. The boy was clearly an urchin of some sort, for he carried the unmistakable aura of a child of the city streets, called lovingly in French by a well-spoken author, an immortal _gamin_. He turned a level look upwards to meet Barbossa's incredulous expression. The boy's ice blue eyes were all too familiar and yet, the pirate wasn't sure where he'd seen them before.

"I mean, really…" The boy gestured to the blood on Barbossa's chest. "Shot through the heart? Ye could've done better, boy-o." He slapped Barbossa lightly on the back with a regretful wince. The pirate merely stared at him, still caught up in the fact that the boy had definitely not been there thirty seconds ago. He couldn't have just popped out of thin air. Could he? "I take it yer wonderin' how I managed t' join ye?" the boy queried, amusement showing on his face. Barbossa could only nod and stutter out an 'aye.' "It's a good thing. If ye weren't, I'd say yez been here before." The boy's laugh was an unpleasantly familiar thing. "Well, in a manner o' speakin', the only reason I'm here is because you are. I wouldn't be much o' continuin' if ye weren't, considerin' I'm you. I-"

"Hold on!" Barbossa declared suddenly. "You're who?"

The boy seemed irritated at the interruption. "I'm you," he replied slowly as if her were speaking to someone hard of hearing.

"Now how is that possible? I happen t' be right here and here only."

"_I _could eas'ly say the same thing," the boy countered, eyeing him. "How d'ye know I'm not really you and _yer_ not just some wraith what's come to give me what fer?"

The boy made a valid point but Barbossa was no fool, even if he was dead. "Yer not gonna fool me with that. I know full well that I was in this boat first and ye weren't there a moment ago," he replied.

"True, that," the boy admitted, stroking his chin. "Suppose it ain't worth continuing' on that note. I can see yer not like these brainless saps." He motioned to the other boats with a thrown out arm. Indeed, it was as if they didn't have any sort of consciousness. None of them had even registered the conversation.

"Rightly so."

"Now, as I were sayin'…I'm here be-"

"Ye never told me _how_ ye got here."

"I'm a bit unsure about that meself. If ye'll allow me t' finish…?" The boy fixed Barbossa with an indignant stare. The pirate stared back at him a moment before answering.

"Apologies, mate. Continue."

"Rightly so." Barbossa didn't miss the boy's mocking tone. "I'm here because you are. In the most literal sense of the word spirit, I'm a fraction of what makes you the man ye are. Laymen's terms, I'm a younger you, age twelve. Had we not been the lad we was in London, ye wouldn't be here n' ye certainly wouldn't be a pirate."

Barbossa sat back a little to mull over what the boy said. "So…ye represent some sort o' facet of me character, then?"

"Aye. Ye could say I'm yer confidence n' yer mettle, among other things."

"Such other things bein'…?"

The boy scratched the tip of his nose. "Eh…pride, too, I s'ppose."

"Ah," he replied, looking up ahead of them. It made sense, he figured. In an odd, out of mind way. He wondered absently if this had happened to any of the other souls nearby. Barbossa looked back at the boy, the young Hector. "If yer really a younger me, I have a question fer ye."

"What be that?" came the ready reply, keen gaze flicking up to meet the pirate's.

"Fer what reason did we leave Ireland?" Boy Hector's keen gaze fell slightly, a bit of sneering curve toying with his mouth.

"Mum had an affair with a Protestant n' married 'im. With our Irish side bein' entirely Catholic, that was purely unacceptable. The rotters pushed us out, disowned us. There weren't a place in the country where we'd be welcome. We, meanin' you n' I, were only six at the time." The boy's unhesitant reply was really the deciding factor. The question had an answer that only Barbossa would know. Whatever relatives of his that were left alive had no doubt long since forgotten their wayward daughter, her dog of a husband, and their mongrel child. The pirate nodded to himself, satisfied but in a mood no better. He toyed with the idea that perhaps this apparition of his former self was here to judge him. That was feasible, wasn't it? Maybe this place was some sort of limbo which, depending on the judgment, was either the Devil's doorstep or the threshold to Paradise. For Barbossa, most certainly the former. All as long as this wasn't some sign of his sanity.

He felt a touch on his shoulder and turned to find his younger self patting it all while wearing a grin. "Don't ye fret. Yer not goin' insane from bein' dead. We're here for a reason."

The Man

"We?" Barbossa's tone was genuinely perplexed. Boy Hector grinned but, it was not he who replied to the incredulous question.

"Aye, we." The pirate, surprised, looked up at the seat before him to find yet another person had appeared from thin air. This one was no child but the feathered hat and familiar blue eyes were obvious clues as to the new comer's identity. As if one of him wasn't already enough. Barbossa was not enthused. The entire situation was getting incredibly frustrating.

"Am I t' be plagued then by various versions of meself until I really do go insane?" The newest occupant of the boat grinned unpleasantly and glanced at boy Hector. This one seemed to be in his mid twenties, right about the time Barbossa had been washed overboard. The cocky smirk Barbossa never truly lost had been even more prevalent at that age. That immortal orphan air had dissipated and it was more one along the lines of a man who haughtily thought himself immortal and really wasn't.

"Seems he can b' taught," he stated sarcastically, jerking a thumb in the older pirate's direction. The boy would have usually laughed and agreed. However, he knew himself rather well and he didn't fail to notice the glowering expression on his older self's face.

"Belay that, Hector," he said sternly, swinging a hand at the other.

"The 'ol stiff can't take a joke? And don't call me Hector," Hector replied impertinently. Of the two, it turned out that the younger was more business-like than the older. Barbossa saw that plainly and was amazed. He would have laughed were he that type of person. He was learning more about himself from himself than anyone else could have told him. Yet, while he applauded himself for being these two at their respective ages, he now knew how his fellows and crew mates felt like in his company.

The second Hector 'pishawed' at the younger. "Who died n' made you leader?"

"Well, fer starters…"

"Just 'cause you found 'im first."

"Don't get yer petticoats in a wad. "T'ain't my fault yer so slow." The older Hector made as if to get up when their little spat was interrupted.

"Shut it, the both of ye!" Both Hectors jumped at Barbossa's outburst. The pirate was on his feet. He fixed both of his selves with a sharp look that even they had trouble meeting. "Quite yer squabblin' n' if ye have a reason t' be here like ye said ye did, then get on with it. If ye don't, then leave me t' be dead in peace!" The other Hectors sat in abashed silence for a moment. Barbossa 'hmphed' and crossed his arms over his chest. "'Tis a good thing there weren't more o' me durin' me life. Seems I can't even work with meself without startin' some sort o' row!"

It was a fourth voice, again familiar but plainly different, that replied in a low, dark tone. "Oh, but we outgrow that, don't we?"

The Monster

All three's gazes snapped to the once empty space next to the mid-twenties Hector. There, in all his rotted, walking corpse glory, was a present age Barbossa in the throes of the Aztec curse. "Seems I've arrived a bit late." Out of the corner of his eye, Barbossa could see Boy Hector's eyes grow wide. His second self, upon the appearance of the dark Barbossa, had nearly jumped out of the boat. It was obvious neither of them had bet on this facet to show up. Barbossa himself, on the other hand, merely sighed quietly. "Ye know, I was wonderin' when you would show up." The corpse managed to grin without any lips and shrugged.

"Can't have Hector Barbossa without me," he admitted. Barbossa smirked.

"So let me get this all straight, then." He looked down at the boy. "Yer confidence n' grit." Then to the next one. "You must be arrogance n' honor." And finally to the corpse. Here, Barbossa smirk's broadened to reveal his yellow teeth. "An' you must be everythin' else. Me dark side."

The corpse's returning smirk was blood-curdling. "Cortez says hello," he drawled. Barbossa could almost call his tone sadistic. Of his selves, this was the one he was most acquainted with in his opinion. None of the silly, childish nonsense of the other two.

"My regards," Barbossa replied, simultaneously bowing and removing his hat with a flourish. "Now, all o' ye." His hat was replaced and he grew serious. "Explain t' me yer reason fer bein'." The two younger Hectors, eyeing the corpse one, recovered from their surprise and slight aversion enough to glance up at Barbossa's request.

"Well, it seems we were summoned t' come find you," began the youngest.

"By someone ye know but prob'ly don't remember," said the second.

"Tia Dalma sent us," said the third frankly. Barbossa's brow furrowed as he tried to call to mind the face that went with the name. There was a significance to it, that he knew. "Think back about say…twenty years or so."

Twenty years? That would put him about the same age as the second Hector. He was still on the _Kracken_ then, if he hadn't already been washed overboard…Ah! "D'ye mean that bizarre voodoo woman what found me washed ashore?" he queried.

"Aye," all three said at once. Barbossa was slightly taken aback at this. He sat back down, one finger tapping his chin thoughtfully. Now what would Tia Dalma want with him? It was odd that she should still remember him. Although, he did somewhat recall her saying she would keep track of him. What for, though? The boy spoke up.

"She said ye owed her a thanks. But that was all."

The pirate looked quizzically at him. "She didn't happen to tell ye why she wanted ye t' find me?"

"Nay."

"Odd. So she's just goin' t' all this trouble fer me t' return a favor."

The older Hector and the corpse Hector glanced at each other. "Off the record, we're actually convinced it ain't just about returnin' a favor." Barbossa watched the boy nod in agreement.

"An' branchin' offa that, there be a slight possibility…"

"Of what?"

"Of ye bein' brought back. To life."

"Brought back…" The mere thought had his mind racing. Perhaps things weren't so bleak after all! Here, possibly slapping himself in the face was a chance to make history and return from the dead! He could practically feel the corpse's startlingly palpable gaze trying to bore into him. Immediately, a large number of nefarious thoughts entered his mind. Barbossa almost couldn't keep from smirking. Here…was the chance at revenge. He took all three of them in with a half-lidded glance, another thought figuratively throwing a wrench. "But just how d'ye propose I get back?"

"That was a thought we didn't happen t' entertain. She didn't rightly tell us what t' do when we found ye," the boy replied almost ruefully. The other two nodded; even the corpse seemed a bit frustrated. Silence, the deafening thing that had struck Barbossa not long after he arrived in his boat, resumed.

So Tia Dalma's reasons were her own and it could be that perhaps she did not trust Barbossa's various selves with them. This had to be something more than just a casual 'you're welcome' she wanted. There were far too many possibilities; it could be that he was a pirate lord or that he had valuable knowledge about a curse or a number of different things. That they didn't know what to do was off setting his plans. The corpse heaved a sigh through his still existent nose, disappointed. Barbossa glanced up at him just as the dark Hector turned to look to his left. Automatically it seemed, Barbossa's eyes landed on the trinket hanging from the corpse's ear.

"That's it," he said suddenly to himself. The others looked at him quizzically. His hand floated up to grip the tiger claw earring hanging from his own right ear. The corpse registered this at seeing the gesture.

"Ah."

"What?" The question came simultaneously at them from the two younger Hectors. The second-arrived Hector must have been not yet washed overboard. He didn't seem to recognize the earring and he wasn't wearing one.

"While I was in Tia Dalma's possession, she had the thought to give me this. I didn't exactly know why she gave it t' me but…I remember, as I were leavin', she told me t' use it should I ever find meself dead before me time," Barbossa replied. He lifted his other hand to the earring, searching for some sort of catch so maybe it would come off.

"But how are we supposed t' use it?" asked Boy Hector. They all seemed to be at a loss when Barbossa suddenly emitted a noise of triumph. While feeling over the odd accessory, he had twisted on the claw thinking that it may have been screwed into the base. It had been. He worked the claw around and once detached of its base, he held it aloft. The other three leaned in to look at it.

His head felt strangely lighter without the familiar weight there. Though it had been hanging in his ear for almost twenty years, Barbossa had never really looked closely at the thing. It was about two inches long, whitish colored, and the tip seemed to have been dipped in some sort of orange paint that was starting to fade. Even if it wasn't actually from a tiger, it certainly belonged to some sort of ferocious beast. Barbossa turned it over his hands. All four of them noticed it at the same time.

Stuffed into where the claw had been screwed into the base was a tiny rolled up piece of parchment. They could see the black of ink through the yellowed paper. Using a careful touch, Barbossa pulled it out. He dropped the claw into an available pocket and set to unrolling the paper. Only one word was written on the paper. Boy Hector read it aloud, his finger tracing a line under the word as he sounded it out.

"Cah-lip-so."

There was a collective expression of confusion, brows furrowed, mouth pulled into an almost sideways frown, one eyebrow quirked curiously. "Calypso? That's just the name o' some heathen sea goddess. How's that supposed to help?" the mid-twenties Hector queried, glancing up at the others. It was a fifth voice that beat any of the Hectors to replying.

"Ya turnin' out tah be more dan I could evah expect. Told ya ya'd be goin' some bizarre places, Hector Haywood."


	12. With Feeling

-Tales from the End of the World: Stone Crabs-

The ring of the harsh, rhythmic voice in Barbossa's ears instantaneously brought an image of Tia Dalma to mind, for it was undoubtedly her. The accent and the nigh-superior tone were irritatingly unmistakable. Though it had been quite a long time since he'd last clapped eyes on the woman, he could just see her furtive grin and the exotic light of her eyes. Barbossa was under the assumption that she left many people with that sort of impression.

"Well, 'tis good t' finally have me talents recognized." The statement was downright arrogant but the brusque hint of irony made it almost bitter. While they were much closer to figuring the issue out, Barbossa was still dead, still stuck in a rowboat in a watery Hell. Or Davy Jones' Locker. Or wherever this was. He'd never really inquired into the location but the pirate had a hunch it was the infamous Locker. Even he, who wasn't a venerated expert on the afterlife, had heard of the myths behind the dreadful limbo. And now he knew them to be quite true.

Fiddling with the scrap of parchment without looking at it, Barbossa cast a look around. He wasn't quite sure why he did this; perhaps to try and see if Tia Dalma had joined them as the apparitions had. "Yer not gonna see 'er, mate," the middle Hector stated. The younger man had leant forward and was resting his elbows on his knees, raised eyebrows amazingly as expressionless as the rest of him suddenly had become. Glancing at his other counterparts, Barbossa watched them nod. And indeed it was true; there was no physical sign of the mystic anywhere. Tia Dalma reinforced this.

"Him be right. I still dwell on de mortal plane, dough I speak plainly wit ya."

"Ah." Barbossa glanced down at the paper between his fingers. The youngest Hector beat him to the question that was dancing on the tip of the pirate's tongue.

"Through that name, then? 'Twas only after we said it that ye spoke."

"Yes." There was a pleased note in the monosyllabic purr. "But now be not de time to inquire into such tings. Dhere be more important tings--"

"Important things such as…?" From the ruffled pause, Barbossa took it that his interrupting had not been to Tia Dalma's liking. "Eh…such as bringin' me back t' life, per'aps?"

"How astute of ya." Her tone gave away nothing. Barbossa let himself revel in the phrase. "Yes, I'll be 'elpin' ya t' find de way out of death. Aftah all, ya still owe me a favah."

The silence was only brief. Barbossa gave a sudden bark of laughter, stuffing the paper into a pocket and getting to his feet. "Indeed I do," he stated decisively, cocking a lopsided, unpleasant grin. Finally, they were getting somewhere. He looked around at the other three Hectors. They met his gaze and seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. "Though I'm thinkin' there's a bit more to it than that."

"An' not just him, either," the corpse declared, getting to his feet as well. Barbossa knew he foresaw some sort of task ahead of them. The other seemed willing enough.

"Aye," said the other two. Tia Dalma's velvety chuckle poured over them.

"Even in death, ya be stronger willed dan de circumstance. I explain once yer back in me comp'nay."

"Right." Barbossa wasn't too worried about an explanation. He was more interested in actually escaping the Locker than learning Tia Dalma's reasoning. It had been ten years since he'd really been able to do something about his fate, something that would have immediate results and didn't require recovering hundreds of little coins. And when he could feel the salt spray on his face again…that was when he'd be in complete control again.

The middle Hector joined the older two in standing. "So what is it we do first?" he asked, arms slightly akimbo. Barbossa applauded himself for not being an apathetic youth.

"Nah, it ain't 'we'," Tia Dalma said. "It only be him that can travel de way." The four Hectors knew instinctively who the mystic meant: Barbossa, the real one. Almost grudgingly, the four seemed to admit this. The middle made a dismissive gesture.

"So what is it he does first, then?"

Tia Dalma's response was utterly unhesitant. "Step out of de boat." So ready it was, it took Barbossa a moment to register. He leaned a little to peer over the gunnels. The dark water looked no less inviting than it did when he first came to. He didn't relish the thought of having to drop into it. Who knew how deep the water was?

"Ye want me to throw meself…into that?" he asked slowly, gesturing at the inky surface. Even the others seemed a bit wary of the idea.

"Yes." Tia Dalma's tone was unyielding. "Unless ye want t' stay dead." So the plunge into the dark water was the only choice. Barbossa peered over the side again with a short sigh, planting one boot on top of the gunnels.

"Over the edge, then." He felt a hand slap against his back and he glanced down to see his boyhood self grinning up at him.

"Best o' luck, boyo," he said with a grin that was both unpleasant and foolhardy at the same time.

"Aye. And it ain't like we won't be seein' ye, either," the middle one added with a shrug. "After all, we're you."

The corpse only smirked. There was nothing he needed to say that wasn't already clear. Barbossa mirrored the look. Perhaps it hadn't been so bad being forced to interact with himself. "That be true," the pirate said. He could practically hear Tia Dalma grinning. "See you in the afterlife, gents." And with that and one hand planted firmly to keep his hat in place, Barbossa stepped out of the boat.

He started sinking almost immediately even as he tried to make some sort of attempt to swim. Swimming was something he wasn't the best at but he at least knew how to keep himself afloat. Why the skill wasn't keeping him from sinking like a cannon ball in a pond was beyond him. A moment of panic seized him. He couldn't exactly breathe under water; he should be drowning. However, Tia Dalma's voice echoed in his mind. "Yer already dead. Dhere be no need to panic."

"Ah." The utterance came out in a garbled, choked sound, a profusion of bubbles swarming around his face a moment before scooting up to the surface. Meanwhile, he just kept sinking. Experimentally, he drew in a breath. Water rushed down his nose and into his lungs but, while he could feel it, the liquid wasn't smothering him and had no effect whatsoever. Barbossa couldn't help but feel incredulity at the situation.

Underwater, it was incredibly dark; he could barely see his hand when he held it out in front of him. And it just seemed to keep going. _It's depthless, more than likely, _he thought wryly as he tried to look past the darkness.

"Patience be a virtue, Barbossa," Tia Dalma chided, one of those sly smiles in her voice.

_So yer readin' me thoughts now, are ye? Well, it's too bad that I rarely employ virtues. _

"Yes," came the ambiguous reply. "Just wait. De bottom'll be comin' up in a bit." Barbossa looked down past his feet. He had a hard time trying to visualize anything remotely resembling a sea bottom. The experience of free falling through water wasn't completely unfamiliar. Though he hadn't been able to stay conscious through it, the time he was washed overboard had felt something like this. However, there had been a lot more water action than this. And then he'd been able to break the surface at least once before sinking. In this dark soup, he just sank like a rock. At least he was right side up, feet pointing towards wherever the bottom was supposed to be.

This went on for what felt like an eternity. Tia Dalma stayed resolutely silent throughout most of the travel, in spite of the various questions Barbossa tried to ask. After several moments of miffed silence from the disembodied voice, he gave up with the inquiries. He was firmly convinced that she didn't want to voice her reasons for resurrecting him until he truly was resurrected. There was something she was hiding. She certainly was a mysterious one. It was as if she and Barbossa had been close acquaintances for years the way she spoke with him. If he hadn't already witnessed and experienced the impossible, he'd say that this wasn't possible and he was having some sort of hallucination or dream brought on from the bullet still lodged in his chest. How could a mortal possess the power to raise the dead?

Lost in thought, Barbossa didn't notice the bottom until his feet met with something solid. Unready for the sudden stop, he nearly toppled over as his legs buckled under him. "Behold de bottom of Davy Jones' Lockah. Dhere be few who evah truly get tah see it," Tia Dalma said suddenly. Barbossa cast around instinctively but found he could still see no farther than a few inches. He rolled his eyes.

_Can't exactly see anythin' if ye hadn't noticed. _

"I 'ad. S'why I sent ya dis." Barbossa's attention was captured by a bobbing white dot that had appeared to his left. Upon closer observation, he found it to be floating towards him, growing brighter as it closed in. The dot turned out to be a floating ball of white light. "Dis'll light de way. Can't have yah by chance steppin' intah a crevasse."

_Oh no, 'o course not._ Barbossa followed the little light with his eyes as it floated in circles around his head. It paused almost excitedly in front of him, bounced up and down a few times and started in a direction that veered off to the left. _I take it that I follow?_

"What do you tink?" Tia Dalma's tone wasn't scathing. Barbossa shrugged and followed after the light.

Firm, white sand stretched all around him from what he could see, broken up by clumps of what seemed to be dark colored weeds. In all, it seemed to be a normal sea bed and nothing entirely special. It was strange to find something so ordinary in a place like this. Yes, the longboats were rather common place but they moved on their own, obviously something normal longboats didn't do. His boots threw up clouds of the sand as he walked and the clouds hung there, suspended in the dead tide. In spite of its commonplace appearance, this was still Davy Jones' Locker.

Barbossa wasn't the only one down there, as he came to find out. He'd been following the bouncy little light for quite a while, chatting on and off with Tia Dalma about various subjects. They had entered a mutual silence when the first one appeared. There, drifting almost aimlessly in the dark water was a person. Both Barbossa and the light paused as the body floated by, its face sunken and mournful, and its eyes not seeing. It was garbed in what seemed to be some sort of night shirt. _It's a ghost_, Barbossa thought automatically. The entire figure was a pale white color. It didn't even register the man and the light watching it. _And there's more._ A shift of movement had stolen his attention and Barbossa found that there were more wraiths floating around them like an undead river – men, women, young and old, all there. There were even a few small wraiths that looked to be children.

"More soul dan ghost," Tia Dalma's voice said. Barbossa wasn't sure if he imagined the indignation in her tone. Still watching with a macabre sense of curiosity, he started moving again with the light floating just ahead of him.

_Doesn't some myth say that Jones is supposed t' ferry them t' the other side?_

"It does. But Davy Jones 'as been…lax in him duties." No, there was no mistaking the ire in Tia Dalma's tone. Barbossa couldn't help but wonder at this. She sounded almost upset. "Dhere should'na be dis many…" The light tentatively pulled to the left a little, cutting across the swath of pale souls and heading away from them. Tia Dalma and Barbossa fell again into silence.

This halt in conversation lasted far longer than any of the previous ones. Thinking to himself, Barbossa didn't particularly mind this. There were a number of things to be planned out once he got back to being alive. He was in the process of enjoying the thought of a nice, shiny green apple when a pain shot through his chest. Coming to a halt in movement, he clapped a hand on the bullet hole over his heart. He inhaled a large amount of water as he gasped. It felt as if someone was stabbing a sharp metal instrument into his chest. _What the devil…! _Something met against his hand. Simultaneously looking down and removing his hand, he watched in amazement as the bullet floated out followed by a cloud of blood. The bullet rotated in place as if some invisible hand was examining it and then shot off into the dark not unlike someone had tossed it over their shoulder. Barbossa stared in the direction the bullet had taken, the pain now having subsided into a dull burning sensation.

Tia Dalma's voice broke through his astonishment. "'Ad tah remove dat or else yah body wouldn't be in fit condition for yah soul to re-enter."

_You did that? Ye could've bloody told me so I'd be ready fer it! _Barbossa exclaimed. The mystic emitted a dismissive noise.

"Fate don't tell ye when yah destiny's gonna 'appen," she countered.

_Aye but you ain't Fate_, Barbossa grumbled and continued walking. Tia Dalma's light chuckle was uncharacteristically dark.

--

Years it seemed before the scenery finally changed and the flat stretch of sand started to climb upwards in an incline. Barbossa heaved a mental sigh of relief. As the incline continued on, the dark of the sea bed started to dissipate. Gradually, warped beams of light cascaded down through the water and Barbossa could see farther past the little bulb of light. _Does day exist here?_ he queried absently. A sun in Davy Jones' Locker seemed uncanny but if seaweed was there, why not a day and a night?

It took Tia Dalma longer than usual to reply. "…Dhere be a sun. De Lockah functions just as Eart' does…" She laughed. "Dough here de inhabitants ain't bein' so lively." Barbossa snorted derisively, exhaling bubbles. As the soft light grew stronger and the chill of the deeper water began to fade, the little bulb of light started go out as it became more superfluous by the foot. It was entirely gone when Barbossa found he was able to reach up and feel the tips of his fingers break the surface of the water. What sort of shore, he wondered, was waiting for him? Would he step out and find himself in a real world place like Haiti? No, escaping death couldn't be as easy as just hopping out of a boat and walking to shore.

Within a few seconds, his head broke the surface. Immediately, he began coughing up the water he'd inhaled during the trip. He had to squint against the suddenly harsh light of the sun no longer softened as it has been under water. Maybe a hundred feet ahead of him was a barren, sandy shore. Hiding most of the inland from view was a chain of sand dunes that weren't too much off the beach. "Now yah get tah see what de real Lockah looks like. Or at least a little bit o' de shore. Dis be de place where Davy Jones sends dhose who break contracts wit 'im." Tia Dalma's voice was no longer confined within Barbossa's mind. It sounded as if she was there sloshing through the water beside him. She made a sudden, impatient noise. "Eh, someone be comin'." He could almost hear her grin. "Someone yah be quite acquainted wit. I only be a moment."

Barbossa could only guess what she meant by the acquaintance statement. He spoke between coughs, hacking up the tasteless sea water. "So what…do I do…in the meantime?" he asked. "I don't 'ave all day t' wait fer ye while ye play hostess."

"Just wait on de shore. I'll send someone fer tah guide yah until I return." Her tone was amused now but the sound of her voice was fading, as if she was drawing away. Just before she faded out completely, Barbossa caught the tail of end of something she said. "Jack Sparrow. I a'ways knew ye…" The dead pirate came to a sudden halt just at the water's edge, frozen in the process of wringing out his hat. Jack Sparrow. Just thinking of the name had made him angry. Hearing someone say it was just downright infuriating. He set about quickly putting his hat back on, not wanting to abuse the dilapidated head piece by venting his frustration on it. And he'd been in a relatively good mood, too, up until now.

A scowl heavy on his features, Barbossa looked around to try and pick out this person Tia Dalma was supposed to be sending him. There literally wasn't a soul in sight. He heaved an irate sigh, coughing up a little more water in the process. A moment before he decided that it was taking this 'guide' far too long, he felt something tapping on his boot. He looked down, jumped in surprise, and promptly kicked a multi-appendage'd creature away from him. Anger forgotten, Barbossa pulled out his pistol and trained it on the little thing from about a yard away.

Something was telling him not to shoot the thing though he wanted to dearly. The thing was in the process of righting itself after being flipped over by Barbossa's kick. Taking almost hesitant steps, Barbossa inched forward, staring hard at the thing. It was only a little longer and wider than his hand and vaguely round, not unlike one of those perfectly oval, white stones one finds on the beach. But, this rock had little, grey, segmented legs and claws and was amazingly similar to, of all things, a crab. Carefully lowering the hammer on his pistol, Barbossa scooted closer and crouched down next to it.

The thing had succeeded in righting itself and seemed to be in the process of berating the pirate with a series of rapid claw clackings for kicking it. The little crab of stone was insulted! Barbossa stared at it for a moment, a multitude of thoughts running through his mind, most of them incredulous. This place just kept getting stranger by the minute. Blinking finally, he came down to it that perhaps this crab-thing was the 'someone' Tia Dalma said she would send. After all, he doubted there were any actual people in the Locker alive enough to act as a guide. "I find I feel a bit like an idiot tryin' t' talk to an offended crab in Jones' Locker but…" Barbossa paused, knowing he didn't feel this way when he talked to his monkey Jack. Ah well…What the drab didn't know wouldn't hurt it. The crab ceased its clackings seemingly to listen to what he had to say. "Are ye the one Tia Dalma sent?" he finished, sliding his pistol back into his sash.

The crab dipped its oblong body in a crustaceous imitation of a human nod. Barbossa grimaced slightly. "Apologies. I hadn't realized." The crab waggled one of its claws at him much like a disapproving mother would and smartly turned away from him to being scuttling along the shore. Still feeling somewhat silly, Barbossa straightened and followed after the crab. The thing was far too human for his tastes. During his time aboard the _Kracken_, if they were some place where they sold exotic foods they would indulge in some sweet crab meat. Barbossa told himself he wouldn't do that anymore.

Yet another long trek ensued, this time along the barren shore between the high dunes and slippage of the surf. It still somewhat amazed Barbossa that while waves lapped on the shore, there was hardly any sort of current under the surface. No doubt some odd, unworldly power of sorts. He didn't try to come up with a reason for it. The crab scuttled along at a rather brisk pace, its pointed legs leaving little dimples in the sand where it tread. Under the harsh sun, it didn't take long for Barbossa's clothes to dry out. He busied himself with looking around at the scenery. It turned out that there wasn't much to look at: dunes, sand, water. The horizon was endless.

Barbossa was growing impatient. They had to be getting to their destination some time soon. He couldn't exactly ask the crab and Tia Dalma had all but disappeared. No doubt this was due to Jack Sparrow, the blasted cur. That would be one of the first things he'd see to when back on Earth – the eradication of the eternally drunk captain. Barbossa enjoyed the thought of having no Jack Sparrow to plague him and the ship that should rightfully be his. The _Black Pearl _was practically owed to him now. In his own opinion, he'd taken it from Jack fairly enough the first time. But no, the blackguard wouldn't just give up. Now Jack had exacted his revenge and it was time for Barbossa to get his. It was only fair. An eye for an eye after all. He'd give Jack the either option of living and handing over the _Pearl_ or the option of death. He should have just killed the bothersome whelp when he had the chance.

Lost in these thoughts, Barbossa wasn't aware of the sound of roaring water until they were very close to it. Breaking out his ponderings, he came to find the crab had stopped. He halted next to it and then noticed the roaring, brow furrowed. Then he looked up. Unbidden, Barbossa's jaw dropped. They stood at the bottom of a positively colossal waterfall. The sheer size of the thing was almost incomprehensible. It stretched endlessly to the left, right, and upwards. "Looks big, don't it?"

"Merely callin' it 'big' be the greatest understatement I've ever clapped ears on," Barbossa replied, hardly registering that it was Tia Dalma who had spoken. He managed to tear his gaze from the overwhelming spectacle and watch the crab make an about-face and head back in the direction they came. The pirate allowed himself to throw a sharp salute in the direction of the crab before turning back to the waterfall. "Well…?"

"Well what?"

"Ye know bloody well what." He heard the mystic laugh.

"Ah right. Seems I'm of a forgetful sort. Keep yah goin' straight."

"Into the waterfall?"

"Yes." Barbossa took one more look at the waterfall before striding purposefully forward. The water was unpleasantly chilled and pounded over him for maybe ten seconds before he came out on the other side. The wall of water was now behind him and with it the light of the Locker's sun. He stood in a dim little cavern of hard grey stone. Ahead of him lay a darker corridor through which an icy breeze came. "Dhere be yah path, Hector Barbossa. Do not tarry; souls dhat pass t'rough here do not last long."

Barbossa took a moment to reply, brow furrowed expressionlessly as he brushed water from his shoulders. "I'm assumin' ye mean I've crossed back over," he said levelly.

"I do."

"Makes sense, then, that bare souls don't last long in life."

"S'why dhey pass on. Ghosts be only superstition."

"I knew it." Barbossa began walking forward, not quite certain he enjoyed being able to feel just yet. The icy breeze was starting to freeze the water that still clung to him. He wasn't sure how this was possible, as he was still technically dead. That, the whole trekking through the Locker, had been far too easy in his opinion. Had it…? A wry smirk crossed his visage and a laugh rolled up from his boots. He had thought this very same thing years ago when he left London and Jacky and the orphans. Had the hardest part been to just get up and walk away?

"Ye'll be takin' a swim again. De corridor opens up into a cavern wit de sea runnin' t'rough it. Ye'll know what t' do."

"Indeed I will."

"Dhen we'll speak again in person. Until dhen, Hector Barbossa." Tia Dalma's voice starting fading away even before she finished speaking. Barbossa found himself utterly alone now, the only sound being the wind blowing down the corridor. Holding his hand out before him as he walked, he found he could already detect a bit of intangibility fringing his fingers. The dark of the corridor surrounded him for a good five minutes until a grayish light lit the end of the tunnel. Snow now crunched under his boots, the wind blowing in flakes of powder from the outside. This was somewhere incredibly cold, somewhere like the farthest southern tip of the world.

Barbossa emerged onto a small shelf just under the opening of the corridor. He found himself in a tall, thin ice cavern that was more the space between icebergs than an actual cavern. But he wouldn't know it. Blue ice made up the walls and the white snow was reflected in the inky black water that ran sluggishly beneath the shelf he stood on. Wan light from the sun poked in through the jagged gaps in the top of the cavern. Barbossa could now see vaguely through his hand as he meandered over to the edge of the shelf. It was now or never. Taking and releasing a breath, he took one last look at the dark water before stepping off.

This time, when he hit the water, everything went black.

--

AN: I believe I had to rewrite this one three times before I settled with a version I liked. Here's hoping I've kept Tia Dalma in character. Ten days isn't so bad between chapters, me thinks. I had planned on it being longer but the oh-so lovely cliffie right there made for the just the greatest place to stop and leave you hanging. –evil laugh- See you guys next chapter which will, alas, be my last chapter planned for this fic!


	13. Good Business

(8/18) I've have this chapter written for quite a while and was just giving some time in between to allow for any catch-up that was needed. But now I figure that you've all waited long enough and so here it is, Chapter Thirteen.

AN: Alas, the final installment. I just wanted to thank my readers for reading and reviewing. I wish to dedicate 'Loathsome' to all my reviewers - JeanieBeanie33, soupkitchen, catgirlutah, Rokhal, Abydell, Dara Natalia, GypsyMoon16, Cinekimi, Jennifer Lynn Weston, The Lady Elrond de Sade, and CmdrMitthrawnuruodo (in order of appearence). You guys keep and kept me writing, honestly. Hugs and pudding cups for everyone!

o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o/o

-The Bargain: A Veil Lifted-

Deserted and quiet, the shore was picture perfect. An ever constant sea breeze ruffled the tropical plants and palm trees fringing the white beach but the fine sands upon the shore were untouched. Not a single white grain had been tread upon, nary a single washed-up shell out of place. The sun, a ball of pure light, hung suspended in a clear blue sky. High, feathery clouds foretold a stretch of good, clear weather. Over the subdued hiss of the surf rose the occasional plaintive call of a gull. The tranquil beauty of the Caribbean was found here just as it was found on the other dozens of islands that littered the Spanish Main, a splendor both common and unique all at once. However, the scene was to be broken, if only slightly. Sleepy in the noon sun, the shore seemed to take notice of its strange traveler for just a moment before settling back down. This visitor was no stranger.

Moving at a walking pace, a woman appeared. She walked at the water's edge barely out of reach of the small waves lapping at the shore. Her bare feet left defined footprints in the wet sand. One dark-skinned hand dotted with small black tattoos held up the ragged, gaudy fabric of her dress. The worn out lace edges were still trimmed with sand in spite of the precaution. The woman moved purposefully, the various trinkets and charms dangling from her person jingling or clacking. She seemed to be searching for something at the water's edge. Suddenly, she paused and her dark, mesmeric eyes flicked upwards to peer ahead through her matted dreadlocks. Her ink-dotted face split into a grin as she spotted what she was looking for.

About thirty paces ahead and lying motionless half in and half out of the surf, was a man. One arm was thrown out to the side, the other angled back. His face was turned away from her but she recognized the feathered hat instantly. The woman resumed her trek even though it was obvious there was something…otherworldly about this castaway. Unlike a physical being, the water he lay in seemed to pass straight through his prone figure. The sand wasn't even washing out around him. The man seemed to fade in and out, a shimmering ghost-like quality toying with his image as if he belonged to the afterlife and not this world.

The woman halted right next the man and crouched down near his head. She looked over him for a moment, brow furrowed. One could never be too sure. Finally, she gave a nod of satisfaction. Letting her skirts drop over her feet, she leaned forward over him with one hand planted in the sand for balance. The other cupped around her mouth and she seemed to whisper into the man's ear. Then she leaned back and stood up, looking down at the castaway. At first, nothing happened. But then, slowly, the man's form shimmered lightly and began fading away.

A quiet laugh escaped the woman when the man had completely disappeared, her eyes half-lidded and her grin unreadable. Still chuckling to herself, the woman turned around and walked back the way she came. She'd have to get home quick to be there before her own visitor woke up. It wasn't long before she was out of sight and the beach went back to its normal setting, blissfully ignorant of the scene that had progressed on its shores.

--

"_I'm supposed t' be hatin' ye."_

"'_An yore not?"_

"_Jack, I'm talkin' to ye and I haven't shot ye yet."_

"_Ah. Tha' is rather odd for you, in'nit?"_

"_Aye, considerin'."_

"_Aye…What is this, by the by?"_

"_Smells like _sake_."_

"_Tha' brings back memories, don't it."_

"_Memories I don't rightly remember, but it does."_

"_Come t' think of it, we were rather three sheets t' the wind at the time."_

"_More like six sheets. I enjoy _sake_ as much as the next sailor but I told meself I'd stay away from that sort o' amount fer the rest o' me life."_

"…_D'you think we could've been friends, Hector?"_

"_Don't call me Hector. Why the blazes do ye ask that fer?"_

"_I dunno. But d'you think it could've been possible? Just a little? We're actually a lot alike, you n' me…Hector."_

"_Blast it, Jack! Stop callin' me that! Aye, I suppose we're a little alike. Could've gotten along. …Maybe"_

"_We did for a while…'least until you mutinied."_

"_Now that's what keeps us from bein' more than unwillin' acquaintances."_

"_You think?"_

"_I'm certain of it. I left you to die on an island n' you shot me. I'm not thinkin' those were the best o' ways t' becomin' 'friends.' There be too much bad blood atwixt us." _

"_Eh, I s'ppose tha' would instill a grudge o' sorts. After all, I still don't exactly trust ye, mate."_

"_Be ye certain that the feelin' is mutual, Jack."_

"_Figured as much."_

"_What are ye doin' here anyway? Don't ye have some port floozy to go beguile?"_

"_Can't rightly do tha' anymore."_

"_Why not? Trouble below deck?"_

"_No! And don't laugh. That's not somethin' to laugh about."_

"_Oh?"_

"_If I could, I'd hit you right now."_

"_Why don't ye? I'm right here."_

"_Well, I can't. I'm dead." _

_--_

Barbossa's eyes creaked open. It felt as if he had just woken up from a very long sleep. Everything was slightly out of focus at first but, as Barbossa blinked he began to see more clearly. A dark ceiling stared back at him. Even without looking around, he knew where he was – seaweed curtain, ghastly knickknacks hanging from the ceiling or sitting on various tables, the heavy scent of incense masking everything else. He could feel the rickety bed beneath him, the humidity in the air…he could feel!

Immediately, he sat bolt upright as all at once his mind was flooded with memories. Isle de Muerta, the Locker, his other selves, that crab, all of it came rushing back and figuratively throwing a bucket of cold water over his bleary-eyed self. Instinctively, he held out his hands to look at them. There was color, sensation, liveliness. And he wasn't about to forget the bullet wound. He pulled back his bloodless jacket and shirt. How the things had gotten clean was beyond him. Sure enough, just over his heart was a round thumb-sized scar, stark white against his chest. He was alive again.

He heard Jack before he saw him. The monkey gave a veritable shriek of joy from across the room and before Barbossa could turn and look, Jack bounded across the tiny room and launched up onto the pirate's shoulder. Seeing Jack again actually made Barbossa crack a rare smile. He reached up to pet the monkey, scratching under his chin. He'd forgotten about the little primate up until now. Jack immediately began assessing his master's well-being, poking and prodding him from his perch on Barbossa's shoulder. The tiger claw was hanging from his ear again though he never got around to actually twisting it back into its base. When the monkey's little hands patted the top of his head was when Barbossa noticed his hat was missing. Putting his own hand to his head with a furrowed brow, he got to his feet.

In spite of being able to stand without passing out or something else humiliating, his legs were slightly wobbly, as if he hadn't used them in a while. It couldn't have been too long that he'd been dead. Could it? Jack ceased his proddings and was in the process of clinging to Barbossa's shoulder, curling his tail lightly about the pirate's neck. The monkey wasn't about to let his master out of his sight again. Unconsciously more at ease with Jack back on his shoulder, Barbossa moved out of the tiny room and into the main part of Tia Dalma's shack. Amazingly, the place hadn't changed at all. It looked the same as it had the last time he'd been there. Nothing seemed to have aged. Apart from the various noises of the outside, the shack itself was silent. The mystic was not present. Gradually, as his gaze wondered about the room, it fell upon something sitting on a small table on the far wall.

There, actually looking rather despondent at not being in its accustomed place was his hat. Mindful of any hanging bottles, Barbossa made his way directly to the table. He was just laying hands on the hat when the door opened and Tia Dalma's voice greeted him. "Ah, seems I couldn't get back before ya woke," she said almost warmly. Barbossa turned to face her, simultaneously putting on his hat with a flourish.

"Seems ye couldn't but who am I t' restate the obvious?" he said haughtily, unable to keep a broad smirk away. Like her dwelling, Tia Dalma hadn't aged either he came to realize with a start. A grin split her still-youngish features as she closed the door behind her and crossed the room.

"Onlee a mere mortal now dat ye be alive," she replied, effectively taking a little of the wind from his sails. Sidling over to where he stood, the mystic crossed her arms and looked up at Barbossa expectantly. "Where be my thanks?"

"Not one t' beat 'round the bush when it comes to debts fulfilled are ye?" Barbossa asked. Her expression was pointed but her eyes were amused.

"I expect payment for my services. Full payment."

"T' be rightfully expected." Barbossa took a step back and bowed grandly. "I be not so proud as t' deny it. Thank ye." But, as he rose, he wasn't sure if he liked the devious twist in her smile. It was a look he'd seen on countless occasions, having even used it himself. He didn't waste any time in pointing it out. "By that look, I have a feelin' that this be about more than just a thank'ee. Care t' impart what more ye want of me?"

"Again, how astute of ya." She gestured to the large table in the center of the room and moved towards it before waiting for a reply. On Barbossa's shoulder, Jack gave a curious chatter, seemingly fully aware of the situation. He hadn't budged from his spot, tail still curled lightly around the pirate's neck. Eyes still on Tia Dalma, Barbossa followed silently in her wake and took the seat across from her. The mystic was still standing, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "Before we set down t' business, might I offah ya some'tin tah eat? Ya must be hungry after all dese years." Her tone was almost as amused as her smile. The mention of food actually took Barbossa by surprise. There was an empty feeling he recognized as hunger but he'd gone so long ignoring it that he hardly entertained the thought of eating.

"Indeed I am. Though I'm not sure that I want to. I owe ye enough already; I don't want t' add a meal to me list of debts."

Tia Dalma batted his statement from the air with a casual wave of her hand. "Nay, don't t'ink of it. Been preparin' for it anyway." Without much ado, she turned and headed through a small, curtain covered doorway in the back. Various mutterings and the occasional clang of metal came through a second later. Barbossa knew he was probably opening a figurative Pandora's box by accepting vittles made by a voodoo witch but he was feeling adventurous today. He leaned back in his chair, hands resting on the table before him. The table top was just as cluttered with weird objects as the last time he'd seen it. Ah, and there was that odd locket just within reach. Casting a glance towards the mutterings in the room adjacent, he picked it up.

The metal was cool to the touch and from the odd bits of tarnish here and there, it seemed quite old. It was also quite heavy and not just because of the large chain it was attached to. He turned it over in his hands and grunted slightly when he discovered a clasp. Jack waved a small hand at the locket, creeping down Barbossa's arm to get a closer look. Inside however there was no picture but instead, gears and others pieces of metal. "Peculiar," Barbossa muttered, brushing it with his thumb to dislodge the dusty gears. At his touch, the gears moved suddenly and a few plaintive notes came out of it. So the locket was a music box. Jack picked up the locket from Barbossa's hand and set to examining it himself. Barbossa heaved a sigh through his nose and sat back again to wait.

Finally, Tia Dalma reemerged from the other room, carrying a bowl from which a small amount of steam was coming. Jack hastily set the locket back on the table and scampered up Barbossa's arm to his shoulder. Tia Dalma's eyes flashed to the locket only once before she set the bowl and a spoon on the table before Barbossa. He thought he caught a flash of indignation in her glance. "Eat up," she declared, maneuvering around the table to sit across from him. The smell wafting up from the bowl was almost heavenly to Barbossa's long-depraved senses. Ten years of not being able to eat hadn't dulled the need for food. But, the sight of it made him halt as he moved to dip the spoon into it. The soupy-stew concoction, for lack of a better word, looked nothing like it smelled.

"Shall we speak then," he began, trying to summon up the courage to try the soup, "of what ye want?" He knew it wouldn't be poisoned. It just didn't look very appetizing.

"If you insist," the mystic replied, looking at him with an amused expression. "As I know yah don't 'ppreciate much the 'beatin' round de bush', I try to stray from unnecessary speech." Barbossa snorted, stirring. "I need you to 'elp me wit de release of somet'in'." The pirate looked up from a spoonful of the concoction, daring finally to taste test it. His eyes narrowed as he tried to find a meaning behind that.

"As in the release of somethin' …or someone from a prison?" This he could do, having done it once before. It wasn't a very pleasant memory but he'd done it. Tia Dalma grinned broadly.

"In a sense," she said. Barbossa, declaring silently 'oh, to the devil with it', shoved the spoonful into his mouth. Contrary to what he had expected, the hideous blend tasted like a pleasant, slightly spicy mixture of chicken and thyme. It sent an amazingly human feeling of glee through him that it didn't taste like ash.

"Could ye be a mite more specific? I don't fancy walkin' into some impossible situation," he replied, shooting her a look as he continued taking in the soup-stew. Tia Dalma gazed imperceptibly at him for a moment, resting her chin in one hand.

"Of course not. 'Owevah, de impossible is what yah must overcome t' complete dis task."

Barbossa paused again only to roll his eyes. "Yer tellin' this to a man who's been cursed _and_ escaped from Davy Jones' Locker. I'm not thinkin' the odds can get any longer."

"I mentioned bein' of a forgetful sort. Dhere be a few t'ings I must explain first."

"Such things bein'?" the pirate asked, wiping broth from his chin.

"Ye know of de East India Trading Comp'nay?" Both Barbossa and Jack shot looks at Tia Dalma, the pirate dropping his spoon onto the table. He sneered suddenly, eyes narrowing in anger.

"Aye, we know of the India Company. A lot o' pirates do," he growled. It was the East India Trading Company that a pirate had to worry about. More than half the time, it called more power than the Navy and had no qualms about hanging anybody. "Had a lovely brush with 'em a few years back. Heh, let's just say that that particular Company officer isn't with us any longer." He was referring to the single encounter with the EITC during the curse. Since the Caribbean-based Navy couldn't lay its white gloved hands on the _Black Pearl_, they'd called back to the home country for a solution to the problem – Stetson Hartwell: officer of the EITC, captain of the H.M.S. _Sea Wolf_ and contemporary to then-Captain J. Norrington. To make a long story short, Hartwell and the _Sea Wolf_'s obituaries appeared in the daily papers back in England several months later. "What of it?"

"De Company 'as taken up personal residence in de Caribbean, Lord Cutler Beckett at its 'ead."

Barbossa picked his spoon back up as Jack hopped off his shoulder to the floor. The monkey was growing bored with this, in his opinion, idle chat. He set to wandering about the strange room, as he hadn't quite explored the entire shack yet. His master wasn't about to go anywhere. "Becket," Barbossa muttered sourly. The name was familiar to him. The name of Beckett had been tied with the Company for years. Whether or not this Cutler Beckett was the same Beckett that Hartwell referred to then Barbossa didn't know. He never really bothered himself to learn first names. But then, a thought occurred to him. "Since when have they been a large presence in the Caribbean?"

"Not so much a year ago but in de past few mon'ts dheir ships 'ave been a-gatherin'—"

"A few months?" Barbossa interrupted. "Just how long have I been dead?" Tia Dalma counted off on her fingers and consulted a pile of multicolored stones sitting on the table.

"A little ovah a year."

"What? How is that possible? I couldn't have been in the Locker for more than a day!"

"Now dherein lie yah problem. Time passes differently for de dead, more slowly."

"Ah." Barbossa was slightly dismayed. An entire year? A lot of things could have happened during that time. And apparently they had. The odd surreal conversation he'd had with his former captain came to mind. Jack Sparrow might really be dead. "What is the East India Company then tha' killed Jack Sparrow?"

"What?" Tia Dalma seemed to be taken off guard by this.

"Jack Sparrow. He's dead, ain't he?" The mystic withdrew into thought for a moment.

"Why d'ye say him be dead?"

"Eh…call it a hunch." Jack, the monkey, stuck his tongue out and made a noise that clearly stated he didn't believe Barbossa. The pirate shot a fierce look at the monkey. Tia Dalma eyed him before speaking again.

"'Tis true. Jack Sparrow be dead. But no' by de Comp'nay. Death of a diff'rent sort claimed dear Jack." Now Barbossa was disappointed. So he hadn't just been dreaming randomly then; Jack was really dead. He regretted only that it hadn't been him who did the job. With a pang, Barbossa noted that his bowl was empty. "But we'll speak o' Jack later," Tia Dalma said dismissively. "Not long ago, de Comp'nay seized hold of a powerful, powerful object dat wouldst enable dem to take ovah de seas." She paused here, fixing a stern and somewhat fierce look on Barbossa. If she had been doing it for dramatic effect, it worked on Barbossa. He looked up from his empty dish. Countless ideas popped into his mind. There were a number of powerful objects of worth in the waters of the world that he'd heard of. But there wasn't one he could think of immediately that would enable the possessor to rule the entire ocean. "Dhey 'ave de heart of Davy Jones."

Though he could be a stubbornly unshakeable cad at times, Barbossa had long since learned to respect the myths of the sea. The myths surrounding Davy Jones rivaled those of Poseidon himself. The significance of that statement was not lost on him. "With that, it's said one can control Jones himself!"

"Yes," Tia Dalma said evenly. "As ye ken see, wit de Comp'nay in control, dhis puts piracy itself at stake. And as a pirate lord, ye know what dat means." She picked up something from the tabletop and flicked it through the air at him. Automatically, his hand snatched the thing out of the air. It was a coin and not just any coin; it was a piece of eight. Barbossa could only imagine how Tia Dalma had discovered he was a pirate lord or how she knew about the pieces of eight. "Wit de lives of countless pirates on de line, ye know yah responsibility."

"Ye mean fer me t' summon the Brethren Court," Barbossa stated, his own voice level and contained. He watched Tia Dalma's eyes flash unmistakably at the mention of the title. The sudden change in her demeanor was quite palpable. She'd gone from beguiling and slick to almost madly defiant.

"Dhey'll honor de call. Dhey must a'ways honor de call." For a long time, there was silence between them as the pirate and mystic locked gazes with each other, Barbossa's narrow and Tia Dalma's forceful. He looked down at the piece of eight caught between his fingers. It wasn't nearly as heavy as the Aztec medallions had been but it was almost as large in diameter. Expertly, he rolled the coin across his knuckles as he looked back up to meet the mystic's flickering eyes.

"There's an ulterior motive behind this. Ye don't want me t' summon the Court for just the sake o' piracy, I know it." He pushed his empty bowl to the side and leaned his elbows on the table, the piece of eight held between his hands. The things that they'd just spoken of ran through his head. The Company, Davy Jones, the heart, the Brethren Court, and even Jack Sparrow; they were all connected somehow. "What is it that ye really want?"

Tia Dalma's expression had been unreadable as he spoke. Now, a slow toothy smile creased her features and she was once again the charismatic mystic. "Yer a sharp one. I knew dhere was a reason I chose ye apart from yah manners." Barbossa smirked. "How learn'd are yah 'bout de Bre'dren Court n' its…endeavours?"

"Fairly learned."

"Dhen ye know of Calypso." At the mention of the name, Barbossa's smirk dropped into obscurity. That was it then. When Tia Dalma spoke of releasing something, she didn't mean just a regular person. She meant for him to release Calypso, the goddess that the first Brethren Court sealed to allow them to master the seas. That could be how she'd been able to contact him through the name; Tia Dalma must be some servant of the goddess. He didn't so much lay the piece of eight down on the table as he did slam it.

"No. The first Court sealed Calypso fer a reason. I'm not goin' t' undo what's already been done," he said firmly. Personally, he didn't think it would matter if Calypso was released and true control of the sea given back to her. He was of the mind that a man could do anything if he just put effort into it. The phrase 'if you want to get anything done, you must do it yourself' was something he agreed with. And this was even though he was fond of conning others into doing things. But his personal beliefs would get in the way of the responsibility that came with being a pirate lord. As of now, it still stood that Calypso was to remain bound in a human body and so it would be until the present Court said otherwise. And he highly doubted they would.

Any sort of charm had fallen suddenly from Tia Dalma. She leaned back in her chair almost feline-like, her expression icy. Barbossa had to hand it to her; she was quite tactful in putting him a position where either decision was potentially disastrous. He could agree, double-cross the Brethren, and free Calypso against their will and later face their wrath. Or, he could refuse to summon them and if the East India Trading Company was really in control of Davy Jones, then piracy was basically going to be destroyed. And from the all-knowing glint so often found in her eyes, Tia Dalma knew this.

"Don't forget yah obligated t' me," she said.

"That I may be… but even I have me limits. Find someone else t' do it," he replied stubbornly.

"A little…motivation wouldn't work?" she asked, rising up now from her seat. Barbossa remained silent, only his eyes following her. "Dhere's not'ing dhat would get yah t' agree to my request?" She came slowly around the table as she spoke and stopped behind Barbossa's chair. He felt her hands rest on his shoulders. "Not'ing at all?" she queried, leaning over to speak into his ear.

"I'm not easily swayed." A light rapidly came on in Barbossa's mind. There was a way to use this as an opportunity. "Unless…there's a lucrative offer in return."

"Lucrative, yah say? How about this?" Tia Dalma's hands tightened abruptly on his shoulders and a freezing sensation shot through him. Barbossa gasped unwillingly as it felt like the life was being sucked out of him. His hands gripping the table were decaying into thin, corpse-like claws, his fingernails leaving marks in the wood. And then suddenly it stopped, leaving Barbossa sunken slightly in his chair and breathing heavily. "'Twas by my hand ye came back to dhis life. I ken just as easl'y put ye back." Tia Dalma's voice was amazingly strong, seeming to come from everywhere at once. Barbossa could only try and catch his breath, his eyes wide in astonishment. How had she done that?

As if she were reading his thoughts, the mystic leaned forward to speak in his ear again. "Put two and two toget'er, Barbossa. Calypso does not stoop as low as t' have a servant do her work." His brow furrowed for a split second before realization hit him.

"You're Calypso," he gasped. He heard her dark purr of a laugh. Gone was the wily mystic to be replaced by a cold, harsh persona.

"And I didn't even 'ave tah spell it out for yah." Her touch left his shoulders and the freezing cold left him. "Now do yah see what yah must do?" For a moment, Barbossa didn't answer. He was looking at his hands once again fully fleshed. Even after seeing and feeling what Tia Dalma-cum-Calypso could do, he couldn't let this scare him in to doing anything she asked. Forcing himself back into his usual mindset, Barbossa stood up.

"I do see," he said, turning to face Tia Dalma. Though she'd shown herself to be a goddess, she was still physically Tia Dalma. And that gave him an edge. "But I'm nobody's puppet." The click of a hammer being drawn back set a short flash of mild surprise across the mystic's face. There was still a chance that he could work the situation to his advantage. "This no longer be the discussion of a debt bein' repaid. I'm makin' this into a bargain, equal ends on both sides." Barbossa didn't level his pistol at her but merely held it in his hands. He found the pistol made for a very persuasive visual for anybody.

Tia Dalma seemed to look right through him, her harsh gaze eyeing him up and down. Then, as if she had taken off a mask, she smiled her old wily grin. "Name yah terms."

"Yer not goin' t' strike me down where I stand?" Barbossa ventured.

"Yah dared spite me even dhough yah knew what I was. Dhere's only one o'ter man who's done dhat…"

"And he's dead, ain't he?" Though neither of them said the name, they both seemed to know who was being referred to. "Figures," Barbossa said derisively, gently letting down the hammer on his gun and returning it to his belt. And just like that, the tension disappeared. It was as if nothing had happened to create anything even resembling tension.

"Just name yah terms."

Barbossa nodded. "For my part o' the agreement, I'll summon the Brethren and usin' our pieces of eight, will free ye. In return, I'll expect ye t' leave me alive. A goddess doesn't issue idle threats, after all. Once yer back in control o' the sea, I never want to see another squall nor stretch of doldrums again in me mortal life. And just I." He stuck out his hand. "Do we have an accord?" Tia Dalma seemed to accept this. She seized Barbossa's hand with a firm grip but, she did not shake his hand.

"Yah do know we'll need Jack Sparrow t' free me?" she asked, her tone amused. Barbossa tried not to groan but swore under his breath. He'd forgotten Jack.

"Aye, unfortunately," he said with a frown. "I honestly don't know how or why he came t' be Lord o' the Caribbean Sea. I'm assumin' ye'll bring him back as ye did me? He must be in Jones' Locker because I know Jack Sparrow well enough t' know he didn't die on land."

"Jack Sparrow is in de Locker, t' be certain. However, he's been taken dhere body and soul by Davy Jones' leviathan—"

"The Kracken? Ye mean t' tell me that Jack broke a deal with Davy Jones?"

Tia Dalma's smile was almost embarrassed. "Yes."

"Why am I not surprised…How do we get to him then?" It was a shame that Barbossa hadn't been able to be the one to send Jack to a well deserved fate but he actually didn't mind going to retrieve him again. Perhaps he'd get the chance then to shoot Jack himself.

"We must travel dhere ourselves t' get him. Dhere be a route known only by one man."

"So we'll have t' track this fellow down first. _Do we have an accord_?" Barbossa said, stressing the latter. Tia Dalma grinned innocently at him.

"We do," she said and they shook hands.

"Now about gettin' back t' the Locker without actually dying…again?"

"De physical route into de Locker is on a set of charts owned by a man named Han-Lee Feng. You know de name?" Barbossa's eyebrows had risen marginally at the title.

"Aye. Any relation to Sao Feng, Pirate Lord?"

"His uncle." Barbossa heaved a sigh. This just kept getting worse by the minute. Now they had to get charts from the uncle of the pirate lord of Singapore. He could already see the outlines of a plan to get them but Barbossa was not fond of the idea. Sao Feng had a murderous reputation, far greater than that of Barbossa's. To anger him was to toy with death itself. Tia Dalma broke into his thoughts, maneuvering towards a different curtained doorway than the kitchen one. "Ye'll want t' chart de course to Singapore, dhen?"

"Aye."

"Upstairs be some charts n' maps I've…acquired ovah de years. Don't be long. De o'ters will be here soon." Tia Dalma gestured to set of rickety stairs as she disappeared into the other room. He nodded once and got up from his seat, brow furrowed as he already began planning into the future. Thinking about, the bargain was easy enough in spite of having to steal from Sao Feng, its end easier to get to than first thought. And she hadn't said a single thing about the means. Barbossa wore a smirk before he even reached the first step. But here, he paused.

"Others?" Tia Dalma's voice came to him muffled from behind the curtain.

"Dhose left of Jack Sparrow's crew. William Turnah, de Swann girl, Gibbs, Cotton, Marty, n' dat odd pair you picked up."

"Pintel and Ragetti?"

"Yes."

Barbossa laughed aloud as he continued up the stairs, Jack hurtling from across the room to leap onto his shoulder. "Good!" The whelp, his lass, and Sparrow's cronies. This was going to be an interesting venture.

Upstairs was a room much tamer than the one downstairs in the sense that there weren't any embalming jars hanging from the ceiling. In the center of the small room was a table. On it sat a lit lantern, a stack of maps and charts, and to Barbossa's great delight, a bowl of apples. One of his unpleasant grins plain on his face, the pirate sauntered over to the table. Jack hopped off his shoulder onto the piece of furniture and sat on the edge, large eyes watching Barbossa. The man's grin had fallen into a serious, focused expression as he leaned over the table to pull the charts to him. Almost unconsciously, he snagged an apple from the bowl no matter the color. So it was to be Singapore? He sneered slightly as unpleasant memories surfaced at the name. They had to find a way there without a ship of their own. He could probably manage to hire someone and make them use his charts…Thoughts running through his head as he rummaged through the yellowed papers, he came across a map of the world. It was a little outdated but Barbossa could work with it. Sinking his teeth into the fruit, he set to work.

It was about thirty minutes later when he heard the door to the shack open. He ignored it as he was in the process of making precise measurements with a compass. Gradually, apart from the occasional sound of voices, there arouse a methodic _thunk_ of something striking wood. At first, Barbossa continued ignoring any of the going-ons from downstairs but, as the noise progressed, he found himself flinching at the sound as it broke in on his concentration. There was no need to reveal himself yet. They'd get just the same sort of shock later rather than sooner upon seeing a man that was supposed to be dead. He kept working.

It was only by coincidence that he heard Tia Dalma say, "Dhen…you will need a captain who knows dhose waters." He was at the top of the stairs when she said it, an apple in hand, just about to come down and make an appearance. Jack clambered up onto his shoulder. Barbossa smirked, casting his companion an amused glance before starting down the stairs with a purposeful stride.

"So tell me," he began, looking out over the room. Yes, there they were: Will Turner, Elizabeth Swann, Gibbs, and the various others. Their looks of surprise and incredulity were truly amusing.

"What's become of my ship?"


End file.
